Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #12

It is not a question of seeing God; it is a question of opening your eyes. Experiencing beauty is not as if beauty were lying there and one just experiences it. The heart that can experience beauty has to be awakened. If there is a sensitive heart within, beauty is everywhere without. If a blind person seeks light and does not find it, is that the fault of light? A blind person should look for a cure for the eyes, for a medicine for sight—not set out in search of the sun, but in search of a physician.

That is why the sages have said again and again: don’t search for God, search for a master. How will you search for God? If you were directly capable of searching for God, you would have found him long ago.

A blind man was once brought to Buddha. He was very logical. The blind often become logical—they have to. Logic gets tied to blindness for a reason. If a blind man quietly accepts that there is light, he must also accept that he is blind—and who wants to admit, “I am blind”? The mind is pained; the ego is hurt; there is a wound in the chest. If you accept light, you must accept, “I am blind, because I cannot see.” So it seems more convenient not to accept light at all—cut the matter at the root: there is no light. And when there is no light, why should I see—how could I see? By denying light the blind man has denied his blindness. He has saved himself from the wound, from the humiliation, from that inner poverty of having to say “I am blind, unfortunate.” The one way to avoid that pain is to conclude there is no light. Hence the blind become logical.

A “non-believer” simply means a man engaged in self-defense. He says, “There is no God,” because if God is, then I am small, poor; if God is, I have not made any true use of my life; if God is, I wasted my life collecting rubbish. I am a waste.

Who wants to admit, “I went to waste”? To feel “I am meaningful,” the one way is to insist there is no God. If there were, I too would have found him—what lack is there in me? What defect in my worthiness? If there were God, I too would have found him. I did not; therefore there are only two possibilities: either I am unworthy, or he is not. The second is easier to accept; it doesn’t hurt the ego. That is why I say: the blind become logical. I am not speaking of ordinary blindness; I am speaking of spiritual blindness.

They brought that blind man to Buddha. He was great at argument! Whoever tried to prove that light is, he refuted them.

And keep another thing in mind: one who has never seen light—you will not be able to prove light to him. He will disprove you. You may know that light is, but knowing is one thing and making another know is another. How will you prove light to a blind man? You cannot place light in his hand to touch, nor let him taste it, nor smell it, nor strike it and hear its sound. He has those four senses.

That blind man used to tell his friends, “Give me light in my hand, let me touch it.” And it is not that light does not fall on the hand; stand in the sun and light rains on the hand—but there is no tactile sensation of light.

He would say, “Give it to me to taste—is it sweet, bitter, astringent—what is its flavor? Whatever a thing is, it must have a taste. Let me strike it, tap it; it should make some sound. Then I will accept that light is.”

They were exhausted and defeated. Their whole experience was reduced to two pennies by that blind man. A single atheist can defeat thousands of people full of experience. Negation has this power. You say, “The moon is beautiful,” and a thousand people say, “The moon is beautiful,” but let one man stand up and say, “Prove it—what beauty, where is beauty?” The thousand who were experiencing the moon’s beauty will shrink within; they will find no way. There is no way to prove an experience.

They brought the man to Buddha thinking that Buddha would be able to prove it. But Buddha was unique. He said, “Why have you brought him to me? Take him to a physician. I have my own physician who treats me sometimes; his name is Jivaka. Take him to him. There is a film over his eyes; it must be cut.” The film was cut. Six months later the man came dancing, fell at Buddha’s feet, and said, “Pardon me. I was ignorant when I said what I said. The arrogance with which I declared that light is not—that was my delusion. But what else could I have done? I couldn’t see; it felt as if those who said there is light were trying to prove me blind. I felt hurt. Even the word ‘light’ pricked me like a thorn. You were kind that you did not try to explain—had you tried, I wouldn’t have understood. I would have fought with you too. Now I know; I have seen. And I also know I will not be able to explain to a blind man. Now I understand your difficulty, and my friends’ difficulty—I have asked their forgiveness too.”

You ask: “I see neither truth nor beauty. I have no inkling of God.”

That means only one thing: the inner springs of sensitivity that should be there are asleep. They have to be awakened. Forget talk of God. Meditate.

People come and ask me, “We are atheists—can we meditate?” I tell them: precisely because you are atheists, what else will you do but meditate? Meditation does not require belief in God. The experience of God is the result of meditation, not its precondition. Remember this. Meditation does not say, “First believe in God, then meditate; only if you believe will meditation be possible.” No. Whoever says “Believe first, then meditate,” is speaking falsely; he does not know meditation himself.

If a blind man does not believe in light, can his eyes not be treated? Will the treatment begin only after belief? Can belief be an essential condition for medicine? What has treatment to do with believing or not believing?

Believe or don’t believe—drink poison and you will die. Believe or don’t believe—drink nectar and you will attain eternal life. Belief or disbelief is not the point.

Meditate—without any condition. The direct formula of meditation is: little by little make the mind thought-free. Leave God alone, or that, too, will stir up another whirlwind of thoughts. What have you to do with God? The word “God” is useless for you. A word that is not your experience is empty, hollow. It has no meaning. Yes—when Ramakrishna used it, the word had meaning; when Ramana used it, the word had meaning. When you use it, it has none. It is utterly useless—and not just useless; often it is harmful.

Drop such words. Seek a little of no-thought. You do know thoughts, don’t you? You experience thoughts; you are surrounded by them—start from there. And don’t you sometimes notice that at times there are more thoughts and at times fewer? From this one thing is proven: thoughts can be fewer, fewer, fewer; and they can be more, more, more. When thoughts become so many that you cannot manage them, that state is called insanity. When thoughts become absolutely zero so that there is nothing left to manage, that state is called liberation. The crowding of thought is the journey toward madness; becoming empty of thought is the journey toward freedom. The day there are no thoughts at all, that day God stands right before you—everywhere. He was standing anyway; only due to thoughts you could not see. The film over the eye is cut. The mesh of thought has blinded your eyes—layer upon layer of thought.

And where God is seen, beauty is seen—that is God’s other name. For me a word even more valuable than “truth” is “beauty.” “Truth” carries a faint odor of logic, a slight glimmer of thought. “Truth” seems like the conclusion of thinking, the outcome of reason.

No—God is beauty. Raso vai sah—he is essence, he is savor. He is the supreme beauty. The beauty that is hidden in the flower, in the moon, in someone’s eyes, in a child’s smile, in the birds’ chirping—that entire beauty is he. It is not the product of your thought-process. That is why, even more than “truth,” the word that reveals God is “beauty.”

I agree with Rabindranath. He did not use the word “truth”; he called the divine “the Beautiful.” We have two priceless sutras. One is “Sachchidananda”—he is sat (being), chit (consciousness), ananda (bliss). The other is “Satyam Shivam Sundaram”—he is truth, auspiciousness, beauty. In these two sutras the whole search of India is contained. The second is even more valuable than the first. The first is a philosopher’s language; the second is a poet’s. And the poet’s language is the language of the heart. The poet is closest to the seer.

You say: “I see neither truth nor beauty.”

That tells only one thing: you do not have the sensitivity that can receive truth and beauty. No one is born without sensitivity; that is impossible. We all bring it with us; some polish it, some leave it unpolished. Some make it well-ordered; some leave it in disorder. Some ornament that sensitivity; others neglect it. You have left it neglected.

You have not cared for the veena of your heart. Dust has gathered upon it; rubbish has settled. Perhaps the veena has even been buried; perhaps its very presence is no longer felt—like a mirror so covered with dust that you cannot tell it is a mirror. The mirror is not destroyed; it is as it was, but it no longer has the capacity to reflect. Whoever passes before it, it cannot catch the image. The mirror is blind. Just a little dusting, a little washing—and the mirror will come alive again. Then you will know truth, you will know the auspicious, you will know the beautiful.

You ask: “I have no inkling of God.”

How would you? And of those who say they do—ninety-nine out of a hundred are lying. So don’t get anxious that you are in a tiny minority. You are in the majority. Out of a hundred who say, “We believe in God,” ninety-nine are lying. And this is the biggest lie in the world. Other lies are small: someone says three rupees instead of two; someone tweaks a little story; ten people were in a room, he goes outside and says there were twelve; there was nothing at home, he walks outside puffed up as if he had millions. These are little lies—dreams within dreams, lies within lies. But one who says “There is God” without knowing—he has told the ultimate lie. His dishonesty is beyond measure. Such a person is thoroughly irreligious.

Therefore I say to you: the people you find in temples and mosques are irreligious—more than the people in the marketplace. The marketplace lies are marketplace lies; in temples and mosques the lies told are spiritual lies. Until you have known, honesty lies in saying, “I have not known yet.” Do not say “God is,” because that too is a lie, not in accord with your experience. And do not say “He is not,” because that too is a lie; you do not know that either.

And there are only two kinds of people in the world—believers and non-believers. One kind of lie is told in India; another kind in Russia—but both are lies. That is why this curious phenomenon occurs: it takes no time to move from one lie to another. Russia was a very theistic country before 1917—very like India: profoundly religious; mosques, gurudwaras, churches spread across the land; everyone religious. Then a miracle happened—revolution—and within ten years they all became atheists. The same people! How so quickly? Because what difficulty is there in moving from one lie to another? Once they believed the theist’s lie; now they believe the atheist’s.

People go with whoever has power. Might is right. Earlier power was in the hands of the theists, so people were theists. Now power is in the hands of atheists, so people are atheists. People always trail behind, imitate. People are counterfeit. Their faces are masks. What they say has little meaning.

So don’t be worried that you are in some great difficulty while others are in bliss—believers, worshippers, ritual-doers, storytellers of satyanarayan, temple-goers and priest-seekers. They are just like you, if not worse. At least you have this much awareness: “I have no feeling.” You possess a ray of truth. If you hold onto that ray, one day you will reach the supreme truth.

But remember: the whole thing has to happen within. Do not search for God outside. He will not be found in the Himalayas, nor in Kashi, nor in Kaba. When your inner eye opens, when your sensitivity becomes profound—so profound that the hidden begins to appear—

Consider this: you are listening to me now. While you listen to me, the birds’ chirping will not be heard. If I fall silent, the birds’ song begins to be heard. And consider one more thing: I am silent, but if you are talking within, the birds’ song is heard but not in its fullness. If you become silent within too, such beauty will be revealed in the chirping that you will be enraptured. That rapture is the experience of God. God is not someone standing with a bow and arrow. Poor fellows would be exhausted—how long have we kept them standing with bow and arrow! Or with a flute at the lips, frozen in a dance pose. If they were real and not stone, by now they would have had strokes! Lay them down; give them a little massage. Their legs must have gone rigid; that posture must have seized them; their nerves must have cramped. Have some compassion on them!

God is not a person standing with a bow, nor someone playing a flute. God is not a person at all. This world is brimming with extraordinary beauty. This world is overflowing with extraordinary joy. This world is vibrating with such peace, stirred by such music, of which we are unaware. When we become utterly silent, that music breaks upon us—from all sides. In uncountable colors, in uncountable modes, the cloud of God pours upon us.

So do not seek outside. Seek sensitivity. Drop even the word “God”—it will do. Seek sensitivity. Become more sensitive.

Have you seen the tasters whose job it is to judge wines? Put just two drops on their tongue and they can tell what kind of wine it is. Not only that—the true connoisseurs will even tell the company—the maker, the country. Not only that—how old it is—one hundred years, two hundred, three hundred—they will say that too. There are hundreds of kinds of wines in the world; hundreds of companies make them. But the connoisseur’s tongue becomes so sensitive that it catches the subtlest differences. To you nothing will be apparent; all wines will seem the same. Even if you sense differences, not so clearly that you can name them.

When a painter comes into a garden, he does not see just one green. You go into the garden and see: the trees are green. The painter comes into the garden and sees thousands of greens—because green has many shades; no two trees are the same green. There are greens, and greens, and greens—and great, subtle differences among them. But the painter’s eye catches them. An ordinary man sees: yes, greenery—enough.

When someone listens to classical music, do not imagine that the one whose ears have grown refined hears what you hear. He hears much that you will never hear. He hears even the emptiness between the notes. He hears the intervals between two notes. From those intervals deep music is born. Deep music is not in the notes—it is in the empty space between them.

You are listening to me; you can listen in two ways. The one who has come as a student will hear my words. The one who has come as a disciple will also hear the empty space between two of my words. Then the meanings will change. They will become entirely different.

Let sensitivity deepen in everything. When you look at colors, look deeply. When you listen to music, listen deeply. When you dance, dance deeply. When you sing, sing deeply. Let your depth go on increasing. Depth is another name for God. The day depth becomes so great that you find you have gone deeper than yourself—where you are exhausted and the depth is not; where you melt and the depth is not exhausted—

Ramakrishna used to say: two dolls of salt went to a fair. The fair was on the seashore. People got into a debate: how deep is the sea? They sat with their scriptures open, quoting how deep each book said it was—but all sitting on the bank. One salt doll said, “What nonsense! How will this be decided sitting here? I will dive and come back with the measure.” He dove and did not return. The second said, “I will go find out where he has gone.” He too dove, and he too did not return. The fair was set up, lasted, then dispersed. People waited, got tired, and went home. Ramakrishna said: to this day those salt dolls have not returned. How can they? They melted! They were made of salt. The deeper they went, the more they melted. When they reached such depth that they melted completely, there was no way to return. And still there was depth—and more depth—and more.

Beyond the point where man melts, there are still depths. The name of those depths is God. We will never exhaust God. No one has ever known God completely, nor will anyone ever know. For if someone could know him completely, it would mean God has a boundary.

Then why do we call someone a “perfect knower”? You may be puzzled: if no one has ever known God completely, why do we call Buddha, Nanak, Kabir, Sundardas “perfect knowers”? We mean something else. We do not mean they measured all of God; we mean they were completely immersed in God. They did not hold anything back. They became God-like—like the salt doll that merged into the sea. It is not that the salt doll measured the whole sea. But what remained of the doll? It became one with the sea. That is what it means to know the sea. There is no other way to know.

Beauty is born in the eyes of man
The emptiness of the sky is in the bird’s wings
If man does not see the grace, all seems marred
If the bird does not fly, the sky is a vast wound
What the nest’s breast cannot fill
If the bird takes to the wing, the sky
Can do nothing to him

Tear up today’s gloomy theories
Put arrows of hope in the quiver of courage
Light a lamp in every darkness
Celebrate Diwali on every new moon night
If there is a song in your throat, then sing
Lift it so that the breath of silence breaks
Be generous—do not test your companions so much
Wicks aren’t assayed on touchstones, you fool
They are dipped in love and set alight
Do this much—they will gladly burn for you
They will walk with you far and wide in the dark
Life today is also sweet—taste it
There is only one condition, brother:
Keep your teeth clean and strong.
Let your digestive capacity deepen within.
There is only one condition, brother:
Keep your teeth clean and strong.
The capacity to digest God, to chew God, to drink God! Let your sensitivity within grow greater and greater. Let your vessel grow larger and larger.

Become empty—and the whole will come on its own. People set out in search of the whole without first becoming empty. And do not divide life into this is saint and that is sinner, this is beautiful and that is ugly, this is true and that false. Life is one. Who is saint, who sinner; who beautiful, who ugly? Those who have known have found every limb beautiful. Those who have known have found the whole of existence God-saturated. They have seen him in Rama—and also in Ravana.

Stop burning Ravana! By burning Ravana you are only declaring that you will choose special forms of God—you will pick and choose. If he is like this you will accept him; if like that, you won’t. If he is fair you will accept him; if dark, you won’t. If beautiful, yes; if ugly, no.

God pervades all—even the worst as much as the best. The day you begin to experience the One in auspicious and inauspicious, in life and death, in light and darkness, in success and failure, in pleasure and pain—in everything—only when such is your capacity will you be able to say “God is,” not before.

This is fruit, this is leaf, this is sun, this is lamp
This is weak, that is strong, this is saint, that is rogue
This is poet, that philosopher!
These are compartments and boxes, almost arbitrary
If we remain bound in them, let us remain—but knowing this:
Our being is not just a box
Life has not approved of staying boxed-in
Life is leaf and flower and fruit
It is sun, it is moon, it is saint, it is all
To remain locked in boxes will not do
To take oneself only up to oneself will not do
From oneself to That—thus will it go
From seed to blossom—thus will it bear fruit
It will scatter, it will spread, it will become dust
If you wish, it will lay itself down on your path; if you wish, it will become fresh grass
It will become a stream; just now it will become a flower!
It is the same One, the very same! The same becomes flower; the same becomes dust. From dust flowers arise; and flowers return to dust. The same rises in the wave of life; the same settles into the quiet of death. By day it wakes; by night it sleeps. It is he who wanders; it is he who arrives. But to know him, no logic and no scripture is of use. Only one thing is of use—let your sensitivity grow.

Therefore I say to you again and again: become as loving as you can. Through love you will find, through love you will know, through love you will recognize.

Those who speak of you, O Lord, day and night—
Their talk seems very difficult to us
Whenever you see them, they are arguing
They write you into great tomes
They describe you in many forms
They go seeking you in dense jungles
They say you are smaller than an atom’s speck
Then say you are vaster than the courtyard of the world
There are some, Lord, who do not know how to read
Who do not know how to write or spin stories
When the morning ray breaks, they rise from bed
And in their unpolished voice sing the joy of their hearts
When we listen to them, you are found
You blossom in their hands in the fields

God is present everywhere; just beware of the pundit! God surrounds you from every side; bid farewell to scripture. The theist has scriptures, and the atheist has scriptures; the theist has pundits, and the atheist has pundits.

Beware of pedantry. What is pedantry? The illusion of knowing without having known. Become experiential. If you avoid “knowledge,” you can become truly knowing. If you avoid scriptures, your own scripture will arise. If you can be free of Veda and Quran, verses will rise from within you; the Quran will be born within; the hymns of the Veda will well up from within. You will find Upanishads starting to be born in you. And only then will you grasp the essence of all scriptures.

But everything is within. And the whole work is to refine yourself—to wash, to polish the mirror of your mind.

Renuka! The matter is absolutely straightforward. There is not the slightest confusion.

The mind always points you outward; the heart always points you inward. When something within says, “Go out—earn money, gain position, prestige, ambition,” know it is the mind speaking, because these are not the heart’s longings. When something says, “Sit silently, close your eyes, dive within yourself, take a plunge into your own being, listen to your life-breath, step into the inner sound that is rising,” then know the heart has spoken.

The inner journey is the heart’s message; the outer journey is the mind’s. There is no reason for mistake here. When hatred arises, know the mind has spoken; when love arises, know the heart has spoken. When thoughts surround you, know the mind has seized you; when waves of feeling rise, know you are in the heart. When negation arises—an urge to say “no,” when doubt arises—know the mind is speaking, for the mind’s weapon is denial. When affirmation, acceptance, trust arise, know the heart has spoken. There will be no difficulty.

Things are as clear as this: when you have a headache, you know it is the head; when a thorn pricks your foot, you know it is the foot. Just that clear. You may not be able to convince someone outside. If someone asks, “How are you so sure it’s a headache and not stomach pain? What are the criteria?” you will say, “No criteria are needed—I just know.” If you went to a doctor and said, “I have a headache,” and he said, “First prove it. How do you know?”—if someone insists too much, even you might begin to doubt whether it’s the head or the stomach. If someone muddles you enough, they can create a mess. But inside, the tones are crystal clear.

Just that clear is the difference between heart and mind. There is no reason at all for confusion. Yet confusion has arisen—and Renuka’s question is meaningful. Many people face this tangle: “How to discern?” Men often mistake the mind for the heart. Women often mistake the heart for the mind. That is why dialogue between men and women becomes so difficult. Have you ever seen real dialogue between husband and wife? It hardly ever happens—what happens is dispute. Gradually the husband learns not to speak at all.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son got a part in a university play. He came home and said, “I’ve got a role! I get to act.” The father asked, “What role?” The son said, “I have to play a husband.” The father said, “Don’t worry—go ahead. Someday you’ll get a role where you have to speak as well. For now, keep practicing!”

Husbands stop talking; slowly they fall silent. That feels safer. Why? Because speaking only invites dispute.

Why is there no true dialogue between man and woman? Their centers are different. Woman lives by feeling, not logic. Man moves by logic, by thought, by mathematics.

A husband and wife were quarreling. The husband said, “Sit down—let’s talk calmly and thoughtfully.” The wife said, “Forget it—I don’t want to speak thoughtfully. Whenever I talk thoughtfully, I lose. Let’s keep it straight and simple; no need to bring thought in between, because thought always harms me.” The husband wants a reasoned conversation: “Sit quietly, you say your piece, I’ll say mine; we’ll decide rationally.” In a reasoned decision the woman loses; so she won’t let reasoned decision happen. You are reasoning—she begins to cry. How will you reason with someone weeping in front of you? You try to reason—she begins to break things. How will you reason then? She is simply obstructing the mind; she is saying, “We will not allow thought to run this. Get down from the head—this isn’t a math problem, it’s a relationship. Keep accounts in your office! Here it will be simple, direct.” And that “simple, direct” talk is precisely what the husband cannot understand.

Feeling is one realm; logic is another. Things are very clear. The trouble arises because since childhood no one has told us these things plainly. Our schools pay no attention to the heart. If ever true education happens in the world, we will certainly teach the art of sharpening the intellect, but we will also teach the art of refining the heart—and more than that, we will teach when to descend into the heart and when to move into the intellect, where which is needed. When you are at the shop, in the marketplace—one thing. When you come home, speaking with your child or your wife—that is another world; there the instrument of the heart is needed.

When you bow before the Divine in the temple, set logic aside. Let waves of feeling arise. Let the tones of prayer resound. Let love come—and if you go mad in love, only then will prayer be meaningful.

Keep this criterion in mind. The mind urges you outward. It breeds hatred, competition, struggle, comparison, a whirlwind of thought. “No” comes easily to the mind, and doubt is natural to it—doubt is the mind’s very quality. When doubt arises, know your heart is silent and your brain is speaking. The heart has nothing to do with the outside; all its juice is within. The heart is like the roots of a tree—branches spread above, roots remain hidden below. So is the heart hidden within; the roots of your life-energy are there. All the sap of life you receive from there. When the call to go within arises, listen to the heart.

And when the urge to go within arises, know the heart has called. There hatred cannot arise, because there is no “other.” Where there is the other, there is hatred; where there is duality, there is hatred. There the other does not exist—there is only you, alone. There is an utterly beautiful aloneness. In that aloneness only love ripples. This may surprise you, because the love you have known so far is only the other side of hatred. You have not known true love; you have not known the heart’s love.

In your love, “love” often only means that you do not presently have hatred for this person; then you say, “I love them.” But the one you “love” can become the one you hate in a single moment—let something small go against you, and enmity is there. How long does it take for friendship to turn into hostility? Your friendship and enmity are two sides of the same coin. Your love is not truly love; it is merely the opposite pole of hatred. Hence the one you “love” is also the one you envy, the one you resent.

I saw Mulla Nasruddin’s wife yesterday—eyes puffy, face swollen. I asked, “What happened?” She said, “Don’t you know? Mulla is very ill. I have to stay awake all night.” I asked, “But I heard you’ve hired a nurse to stay at night.” She said, “That’s why I have to stay awake! Now I must keep an eye on the nurse. The patient is fine—practically on his deathbed—but what difference does that make? He’s still Mulla Nasruddin! Leaving him alone at night with a nurse… When there was no nurse, I could sometimes snatch a little sleep. Now that the nurse has come, I must sit up.”

Where is trust in your love? Where is reverence? Your love is jealousy, possessiveness. Your love is a kind of bondage. No, I am not speaking of this love. When love manifests in the heart, it is a state, not a relationship. It has nothing to do with whether it is love for husband or wife, son or mother or brother. When love is born in your heart there is simply a climate of love. You touch a tree and there is love in your hands. You lift a stone and there is love in your hands. You go to bathe in the river and your heart flows in love toward the river. You sit alone and the fragrance of love keeps wafting. Whoever wants may take—it is not addressed to any one person; it flows in all directions. It is a flood. It is not stingy, not miserly. You are not anxious that if you give to this one, what will be left for that one? Love is not that kind of thing.

Love’s economics are different. In ordinary economics, if you have five rupees and give one, only four remain. That is why in your ordinary “love” there is so much jealousy. The wife is anxious: if the husband smiled and spoke warmly to someone else, then the supply is reduced. When he comes to me, he will smile less—so much smile has already been spent. The cartridge is empty now; sit there with your empty cartridge!

You think love is such a thing that it diminishes by being given? Then you do not know love; you have been deceived by its counterfeit. When the heart’s love arises, the more you give the more it grows; the more you share, the more it increases. If the husband has been smiling all day, enjoying himself at the office, with friends, he will be even more cheerful with his wife; the day’s joy will keep him fresh and delighted. If the wife has been cheerful all day—meeting her friends, singing songs—she will be glad when her husband comes home. But now the situation is reversed: she sits gloomy all day; the gloom accumulates. On whom to take revenge? She waits: come home! The husband hasn’t laughed all day; and even if he wants to, his lips won’t cooperate—no laughter will come.

Understand it like this: as though the moment you step out of the house you stop breathing—how will you return? As a corpse. It is good that the wife does not say, “When you go out, don’t breathe. When you come, breathe only with me.” And husbands don’t say to wives, “I’m going out now—stop breathing till I return. When we sit close, immersed in love, then breathe.”

But with love this is exactly what is happening. Love is breath. As the body lives on breath, the soul lives on love. The heart has two parts. One is the lungs: breath goes to them. Hidden just behind the lungs is the invisible heart—to it, love goes. If breath lessens, the body weakens; if love lessens, the soul weakens. When a love begins to express itself within you that is not miserly in giving but joyous, a love not devoted in a single direction but flowing in all directions—know that the heart’s love is born.

This love slowly becomes prayer. And such love can be born only when there is trust within you. Even in love, what you carry is doubt.

One evening Mulla Nasruddin came home. His wife inspected all his clothes, his coat—to see if she might find a hair or two; she often did. If she found something, the trouble began. That day there was nothing—Mulla had cleaned himself quite thoroughly, shaken himself well. No hair. He thought, “Today there will be no trouble,” but suddenly his wife began to beat her head and cry. Mulla said, “Look, you found no hair—why are you crying and shouting?” She said, “Now it’s the limit! It seems you’ve started going with bald women!”

Doubt is doubt—even though finding bald women is a rather difficult business, doubt is still doubt.

Your love is nothing but doubt—that is why it is not the heart’s love. Where reverence arises, where there is the capacity, the worthiness to accept everything—then you will have no difficulty in distinguishing. The languages of mind and heart are entirely different.

And yet, Renuka, I know that inside people everything has become topsy-turvy, a khichdi. Nothing is neat. As though an earthquake has come and all the things in the house lie scattered—that is how man has been passing through centuries of earthquakes. Hands have taken the place of feet, feet the place of hands. The heart has taken the place of the head, and the head the place of the heart. Man has become an anarchy; hence such questions arise.

But if, with a little understanding and awareness, you begin to search within, things can be set in order again, refined again. This arranging and refining is what I call sannyas.

By sannyas I mean simply this: that a musical rhythm arises in your life; you become well-ordered. Your brain is the brain, your heart is the heart. When the brain is needed you can use it. It is not useless; it is needed. No mathematical problem can be solved by the heart—cry as much as you like, a math problem will not be solved. If you must solve a scientific riddle, dance as much as you like; no scientific riddle will be solved—if anything, it will become more tangled. But if you are seeking the Divine, dancing will bring you closer. In truth, no one comes close in any other way—the dancers are the ones who approach him. That is his path.

For knowing the outer world—that is, science—the mind and intellect work. For knowing the Divine—that is, religion—the heart works. Both are needed. I am not telling you to choose only the heart and throw the brain away. I am saying you should have such mastery that you can use whichever is needed, when it is needed. Neither should be the master over you. That is the meaning of sovereignty: when I need to walk, I use my legs; when I need to sit, I stop using them.

Now a gentleman is sitting here, and he is moving his legs. Some people keep moving their legs even while sitting. They are on a chair, but their legs are walking. What does this mean?

Their legs have gone mad. They don’t quite know whether they are sitting or walking. Now the legs should stop; when you walk, they should move. If, while sitting, the legs keep moving, then when the time comes to walk, you will find yourself already tired—how to walk then? When there is no work for the intellect, yet it keeps running, then when the work comes you are already worn out; then the intellect won’t function.

Use each faculty only when there is work for it—you will always find your organs fresh. You will always find all your instruments working smoothly. And when all the instruments of life work smoothly, there is a rhythm in them, a sound. That very sound is sannyas.

Love! Not even God is as valuable. Because if love is attained, God is attained; and without love, God is never found. Love is the most valuable. Prayer is not as valuable, because one who has not known love cannot become acquainted with prayer. Love, purified and purified, becomes prayer. Love, refined, becomes prayer. Think of love as raw prayer; prayer is ripened love.

This shore, that shore
one single bank.
This shore, that shore
a current that runs clear across.
This shore, that shore
the current and the bank.
This shore, that shore
love, love, love!

On this side love is essential, and on that side too love is essential. Love is what joins this shore to the other shore. Love is the bridge. Love is the rainbow that joins matter to the divine, body to soul. It is the dialogue between the seen and the unseen, between word and the void.

Not a burning flame,
burning affection.
This radiance that spreads,
offered,
immeasurable,
humanity’s for humanity—
indelible love!

Love. Begin with human beings, but do not stop; let it go on spreading. Like when someone throws a pebble into a lake: at first a small circular ripple rises, then it spreads and spreads, it goes on expanding to the far horizon, to the very edges of the infinite.

Begin love with the human, for that one is nearest to you. But do not stop there. Then let love spread. Let animals be included in it. Then birds included. Then plants included. Then stones included. That is why we made God’s images of stone—so that even the stone be included in your love. But you are so strange that you forget the original point; you start doing something else. The stone has to be included in love; therefore stone images were made, to remind you that until love reaches even the stone, know that the journey is not yet complete. And from wherever there is a possibility of learning love, in whatever way—learn.

Love has no boundary.
Grant me the strength to say this in a free voice.
O priestly heart of my love,
give me that devotion by which I may pour everything out upon love.
Like a flower that has bloomed,
it set no limit—this one may pluck, or that one.
Let anyone clasp me to their throat as they wish.
Let me not think of ties and kin—this joins, or that joins.
Whomever I touch,
may they gather a golden aura and be blessed.
Let me become everyone’s;
let all become mine; let there be no “other.”
Let there arise that township of love
in which anyone’s sorrow becomes a thorn in my heart.
And if someone strikes me with a trident in removing it,
may it turn into a flower!

Love is a miracle. Love is magic. If the heart is filled with love, even thorns become flowers for you. And if the heart is empty of love, even flowers become thorns. Those who have learned the magic of love have transformed the whole world; for them, this entire existence becomes God-filled.

Yet in the name of religion so many quarrels have been raised. Hindus kill Muslims, Muslims kill Hindus. Someone breaks a temple; someone burns a mosque. There seems to be no end to man’s madness. The essence of religion is love. What kind of religion is this? Let such religions go. Bid farewell to such religions. The earth will be blessed by their departure. Let these pundits and priests go—say good-bye to them. Enough of this mayhem. Now let there be talk of man joining with man.

Here you see people of all religions, all castes, all colors. There is no dispute, no quarrel, no disturbance. If this can happen in a small commune, it can happen in the larger one; it can happen on the whole earth. For the earth is made of these very people. There are no other kinds of people elsewhere—people just like you live upon the earth. But wrong notions, wrong doctrines, wrong teachings, wrong conditioning have made us enemies of one another. Here it does not even occur to you whether the person sitting next to you is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain, or a Buddhist.

That will be an auspicious hour when love spreads across the whole earth so that only love remains as religion, and from love alone prayer is born, and through love people set out to attain God. The day Kaba and Kashi become one single pilgrimage of love, the day a person goes to whatever temple, mosque, or gurudwara is near at hand and dances, loves, remembers the Lord—that day this earth can be transformed.

And now it is absolutely necessary. Either man will change or man will die. The disease has reached such a point that it cannot go on without treatment. Man has rotted so much that if he remains as he is, consider this the last century—let twenty-five or thirty years pass, it will be very difficult—the earth will become empty. The earth will be covered with corpses. Either humanity will end and commit suicide, drowning in its own hatred; it will be reduced to ashes in the politics of its religions and the mischief of its politicians. Or, because of the coming catastrophe, man will awaken, become alert, and be transformed. But man is not going to remain as he has been.

The hints I am giving you are the hints for the New Man—what the New Man should be like, and what the religion of the New Man will be. What the gesture of prayer will be on this earth—the gesture that should be, that can save man. This small experiment can become vast.

All experiments are small at the beginning. Jesus had a hundred or a hundred and fifty people with him—not a large number. Buddha had a few thousand—not a very large number. But the experiments spread. They went to the corners of the earth. This too is a small experiment—and you are blessed to be part of it! Today you may not even know it. Those who walked with Jesus—what did they know of what great experiment they were taking part in? Those who walked with Buddha—what news did they have? You too have no idea. You have come for your own reasons: someone has a small trouble, someone has anxiety, another is in sorrow. You have come to dissolve your sorrows. Your sorrows will indeed be dissolved. They are dissolving.

Before me there is also a larger picture, one that includes all humanity. There is a greater suffering that surrounds every person. That too can be dissolved if we can create a dancing religion of joy and love—one that accepts no qualifiers, that accepts no boundaries.

And boundaries are made of very petty things. All petty things tell the same tale—that somewhere love must have run short. Therefore I say: love is the most important in this world. Learn love. Do not cut people off—join them.

Do not sever the rays;
do not bar the doors of light.
We are all one life,
one mind.
The aim is the lowly, the poor.
Do not split us into a hundred thousand pieces!

But this is what has happened till now. Man remains as poor, as lowly, as miserable—and you go on dividing him. Do not divide—unite. Do not break. And wherever tones of joy and love can be learned, learn from there.

Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her fresh laughter:
of rays, of flowers.
Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her
the blue sky,
the golden morning,
the pearled grass.
Let us go to the evening—
that we may wrap ourselves in the rising stars,
spread out the sheet of moonlight,
and vie with one another in laughter—
with the moon, with the flowers,
with the wave, with the shore.
Let us go to the night—
let us take the darkness as our own,
take sadness as a dream,
turn sorrow into bliss,
take from morning the colors of the mind,
take from night the cadence of the mind’s song!

All around, there is so much present. Just gather it, orchestrate it. All the instruments are at hand, the time has arrived, it only needs seating—the vast song can be born. An unparalleled flame of love can arise.

Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her fresh laughter.
Man has forgotten how to laugh; now let us ask the morning for a little laughter. The sun comes and all the flowers begin to laugh. Morning arrives and all the birds laugh.

Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her fresh laughter:
of rays, of flowers.
Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her
the blue sky.
Man has buried his eyes in the earth; he does not even look toward the sky. He is absorbed in the petty; he cannot hear the call of the vast.

Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her
the blue sky,
the golden morning,
the pearled grass.
Man is entangled in diamonds and jewels. Who looks at the beauty of pearled grass—when in the morning the dew settles on the grass and puts all other pearls to shame! Who sees the beauty of flowers! Who asks the jasmine! Who asks the rose! People are after stones.

Let us go to the dawn—
let us ask from her
the blue sky,
the golden morning,
the pearled grass.
Let us go to the evening—
that we may wrap ourselves in the rising stars,
spread out the sheet of moonlight,
and vie with one another in laughter.
Ask the night sky. Merely wearing the shawl of “Rama’s Name” will accomplish nothing.

Wrap yourself in the rising stars—
the whole sky fills with stars; drape yourself in this shawl sometime and dance. This shawl belongs to God. Even if God does not appear, the shawl does appear—wrap it around yourself and dance! In dancing with it, perhaps you will meet Him. Perhaps a little of His fragrance has remained in this shawl. It has—this is His light.

Let us go to the evening—
that we may wrap ourselves in the rising stars,
spread out the sheet of moonlight,
and vie with one another in laughter—
with the moon, with the flowers,
with the wave, with the shore.
People have set up competitions in weeping! People are competing in violence and revenge. Laugh; make others laugh! Fill this path with a couple of moments of laughter.

If you must compete, compete with the flowers in laughter. Off you go to fight elections! Off goes Murariji to become a hero! Beware! And now Murariji has reached Delhi. Now Murariji does not even become a hero—now he says, “I am the prime minister, and no one else!” Compete with the flowers, compete with the stars. Delight will arise, juice will flow, love will well up. You too will bloom with the flowers; you too will laugh with the stars. This is man’s inheritance. It is his birthright. Do not let this right slip away. Do not let this opportunity be lost.

Let us go to the night—
let us take the darkness as our own.
Have you seen the peace of darkness? The hush of darkness? The music of darkness? The vastness of darkness? The eternity of darkness—without beginning, without end?

Let us go to the night—
let us take the darkness as our own,
take sadness as a dream,
turn sorrow into bliss,
take from morning the colors of the mind,
take from night the cadence of the mind’s song!

This is what I want to make of you. This is the cadence, the color, the song, the raga I want to give you. This is the sannyas I want to give you—one that is celebratory; a festival. But the center of that festival can only be love, nothing else.

You ask: “What is the most valuable in this world?”
I say to you: Love! And when love descends, God descends!

Today a ray descended, the lotus of the mind bloomed.
Today the eyes brimmed with lucid water.
The ray came near—laughter dissolved into the heart,
as the form of the moon dissolves into the sky.
All was clarified and washed; the sky grew limpid.
Today a ray descended, the lotus of the mind bloomed.

If we lodge this ray within our very life-breath,
if we gather this moment into song,
if we weave it into action, into the religion of each day,
then the life-force grows strong and the day is fulfilled—
today a ray descended, the lotus of the mind bloomed.

Therefore I want your sannyas to be woven into your body and breath, your life, your conduct, your everyday, day-to-day work; let it be joined, not separate.

Weave it into action, into the religion of each day—
then the life-force grows strong and the day is fulfilled.
Today a ray descended, the lotus of the mind bloomed!

Swami Anand Vairagya! This is the moment, the auspicious moment—the one every person waits for. When one can say, “Now I am the bride of my Beloved!” When one can surrender oneself. When one can clasp the feet of the Dear One.

And only when there is love can those feet be seen, for those feet are not gross. They are not visible to the eyes of flesh; only the subtle eyes of love can see them. The Beloved is standing right before you, yet you do not see. When He is seen, the blessed hour has arrived. And then what remains but that we dance, lost in ecstasy!

“Now I am the bride of my Beloved!”

There is only one Man in this world—the Divine; all the rest are gopis. Such is the scripture of devotion. Such an unparalleled sutra of bhakti!

Meera went to Vrindavan. There was a temple there, a great temple, the largest—Krishna’s. Its priest had taken a vow never to look upon a woman. No woman could enter the temple. If the priest had vowed not to look at women, how could any woman step inside? No woman had ever entered. Meera danced her way in. There were gatekeepers, but her dance was such that they forgot themselves in it. Her voice so enchanted them that they, too, began to dance! For the first time, Krishna’s temple became truly Krishna’s: dance arrived, song arrived, Meera arrived! Without Meera the temple must have remained empty; even the deity would not have tarried there—if there is no bride, what is the bridegroom to do? Today the bride came; the temple was infused with life, it became living.

The guards forgot to stop her, forgot that women were forbidden inside. And Meera was in such divine intoxication that even if someone had tried, she would not have stopped. People like that do not stop for anyone. She reached the inner sanctum; the worship was underway. The platter slipped from the priest’s hands—he had seen a woman! The priest grew angry. He shouted, “Insolent woman! How did you get in?”

Meera laughed—laughed as flowers tumble from trees—and said, “I had thought there was no man except Krishna. So you, too, are a man? Then there are two men in the world—Krishna and you. I had thought all His devotees are His gopis. What have you been worshipping then? Whom have you been worshipping? Your ‘man’ has not yet left you! ‘Man’ means stiffness, swagger; it means ego. Your ‘man’ is still intact—what worship have you been doing? It is not the platter that fell from your hands; it is proven that your life’s worship was in vain.”

They say the priest was stunned. She had spoken the truth. It was like a lightning flash. He fell at Meera’s feet. The man who had never looked at a woman clutched a woman’s feet. For years he had never touched a woman. He had thought, “I am a celibate.” That day he discovered he did not know even the ABC of the scripture of devotion.

Only one Man—the Divine!

Anand Vairagya, the right feeling has arisen: “Now I am the bride of my Beloved!”

My full blessings are with you. This is exactly what I am working for here—that everyone may be adorned like a bride. That all dance, that everyone’s heart brim with the same exuberance as a bride setting out to meet her Beloved!

Akbar had gone hunting. Evening fell; he sat down to offer namaz. A woman, running, passed by and jostled him. He was praying and toppled over. He grew very angry. After all, it was Akbar—the emperor! But how could he speak in the middle of namaz? He hurried to finish. By the time he did, the woman was returning. He stopped her and said, “Are you in your senses or out of them? When someone is offering namaz—anyone—when anyone is praying, you should at least have the sense, the culture, not to disturb. And I am your emperor, the sovereign—yet you shoved me so hard as you ran that I fell over!”

The woman said, “You were praying? Forgive me! I knew nothing. Someone brought me word that my lover was coming, so I ran to the road to meet him. I was not in my senses at all. When the lover is coming, how can one remain composed? I have no recollection. If my shove struck you and you fell, one thing is certain—your shove must have struck me too. We must have collided. But I do not remember it. I was going to meet my lover. But, Majesty, a question arises in my mind: you, too, were going to meet your Beloved; you were praying, offering namaz—how did you notice my shove? You were remembering the Supreme Beloved, and yet my push registered? I went to meet my ordinary lover—and he didn’t even come; the news was false—and I was so absorbed in that false news. You were going to meet the True Beloved, who is ever-present, and still you noticed my shove? There is anger in your eyes. Forgive me!”

Akbar has written in his memoirs that that day he realized he had not yet learned to pray. The Divine had not yet become his Beloved, nor had he become a lover.

When love awakens and you become a bride, miracles happen. Such a miracle—

What knowledge have they mastered, who read the unwritten!
Who test what was never spoken, without a lip’s movement!
Their hearts are the strings of sitars, their bodies the slaps of the tabla;
Mouth a chang—the tongue, heart a sarangi; feet anklet-bells, hands the bows.
The ragas are dyed in the hues of those whose feelings are cast in His mold;
Beyond gait, beyond tune and beat, the pakhawaj dances without a rhythm.
All instruments, after playing, broke—when the voice began to ripple;
When the ankle-bells fell silent with a chham-chham, the dance found its final gait.
This is not music, it is communion—such that even master dancers call it art;
Who can recognize this dance? The one who dances it, knows it.
The ragas are dyed in the hues of those whose feelings are cast in His mold;
Beyond gait, beyond tune and beat, the pakhawaj dances without a rhythm.

A magic descends when love pours in. Then there is no worry about rhythm, no concern for instruments. Even if the vina lies broken, it still gives forth sound.

The ragas are dyed in the hues of those whose feelings are cast in His mold;
Beyond gait, beyond tune and beat, the pakhawaj dances without a rhythm.
All instruments played and then fell apart, when the voice began to wave;
And when the ankle-bells were stilled, the dance seemed to reach its end.

The moment of enchantment has come—be a bride and dance!

The fire that flared in the heart—that is the torch’s radiance;
What pallor lies upon beauty’s face—its every blush springs from that pallor.
The step where His feet alighted—its gait is unlike any other;
The gathering in which He dances—is the most empty of all.
The ragas are dyed in the hues of those whose feelings are cast in His mold;
Beyond gait, beyond tune and beat, the pakhawaj dances without a rhythm.

Now dance—the hour to dance has come!

For the One for whom the dance was done—His image has arrived;
Somewhere “You” was uttered, somewhere “Dance,” somewhere a melody swelled.
When the image of the dashing, charming Beautiful One entered the eyes,
A swoon came upon the gait—and light merged into Light.
The ragas are dyed in the hues of those whose feelings are cast in His mold;
Beyond gait, beyond tune and beat, the pakhawaj dances without a rhythm.

Now do not stop. Do not pause. Do not hold yourself together.

All bodily awareness went far away when the mridang struck the cadence;
The body broke, the heart was stunned; all splendor arrived, the unadorned was adorned.
Who danced here, O “Nazeer”—who else has seen such a dance!
When the drop met the ocean—thus, at last, the melody resolved.
The ragas are dyed in the hues of those whose feelings are cast in His mold;
Beyond gait, beyond tune and beat, the pakhawaj dances without a rhythm.

That is all for today.