Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #14

Veena! In love, distinctions fall—outer and inner; mine and yours; dream and truth. Love establishes non-division. In love duality disappears; twoness vanishes; only oneness remains. In love there is neither maya nor Brahman, neither the world nor nirvana. Love has a single taste, as the ocean has a single taste.

As love deepens, the difference between truth and dream disappears; the distinction between inner and outer dissolves of itself. All divisions belong to the intellect; the heart knows no division. The heart recognizes only non-division.

The question seems reasonable—“Are dreams true or false?” The intellect does not raise questions only about dreams; it raises questions even about what we call reality—“Is the world true or false?” The intellect questions everything. In the intellect, questions sprout like leaves on trees. The very process of the intellect is the generation of questions. To be free of questions is to go beyond the intellect.

There is no other door beyond questions except love. Love does not ask—love lives. Do not ask, live. There are things that are destroyed by questioning. There are things which, if you think about them and analyze them, will be torn to shreds. If there is love, drown in love; do not analyze love. If there is a flower, experience its beauty; do not pluck it apart, tearing off its leaves and scattering its petals to peer inside to find where beauty hides—otherwise even what was will be lost.

In just this way, the intellect has slowly erased everything from the world. God is lost—because of the intellect. Samadhi is lost—because of the intellect. Love too has vanished—because of the intellect. Beauty also has gone. The world has become utterly empty, hollow. Whatever value love had given the world, the intellect has snatched away. Whatever colors the heart had filled in, the intellect has whitewashed them all.

The realization of the divine is the hue of the heart. The intellect will not accept it. The intellect can accept only the petty, that which can be grasped by its analysis.

There are things that are unanalyzable, and it is a blessing that they are not analyzable. The roots of a tree are hidden in the earth—do not, even by mistake, pull them up to look at them. Do not think, “A tree must have roots, it must be receiving sap from the soil—where from, how?” Do not uproot the tree out of curiosity. Do not bring its roots into the sun, otherwise the tree will die. Roots live in darkness, in silence, in emptiness, in peace—where even a sun ray does not reach.

Where the ray of thought does not reach—there lie the roots of your life. Where the commerce of the intellect does not reach—there are all your sources of nectar. So do not ask. Go down into the experience of what is happening. The experience itself will prove whether it is true or false.

In love, no further proof is required. Love is self-evident. Love needs no other witness; love is its own testimony, and beyond it no other testimony is possible. If a lamp is lit, you do not bring another lamp to see it. A lamp is self-luminous; in the same way, the lamp of love is self-proving.

Mulla Nasruddin worked in a nawab’s household. Morning came. Mulla lay asleep. His master asked, “Nasruddin, get up and look outside—(a sweet winter morning)—has the sun risen or not?” Nasruddin went out, then came back in and, without answering, began lighting the lantern. The master asked: “What are you doing? I’m asking whether it’s morning yet—has the sun risen or not?” Nasruddin said: “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I went out—it’s very dark. I’m taking the lantern to see whether the sun has risen or not.”

Will you carry a lantern to see the sun? To see love, there is no need for any other lamp. Love is its own proof. Taste it, be intoxicated with its nectar. And as the nectar deepens, authenticity will enter your experience.

A world without love is false; dreams full of love are true.

In the West, Sigmund Freud did tremendous work on dreams—but only on one kind of dream. We might call them the dreams of desire—dreams of repressed drives, unfulfilled passions, frustrated urges. He found hell inside human beings, because who knows how many unfulfilled cravings are piled within. From these very urges your dreams arise. This is half true. And where it is true, it is utterly true. But there is another kind of dream that is not of desire—we can call them dreams of prayer. That is an altogether different realm. If desire-dreams are dark, prayer-dreams are filled with light. Desire-dreams are born of those desires you did not live and have suppressed—desires upon whose chest you have sat; which society, conditioning, civilization did not allow you to live; which you were taught to repress—from such repressed drives one kind of dream arises. Freud analyzed those. There is another world of dreams, exactly the reverse: prayer-dreams.

Just as dreams arise from suppressed desire, so too dreams arise from awakened prayer. The prayers you have lifted up and enkindled give birth to a new existence of dreams. Suppress desire and a dream is produced. Awaken prayer and a dream is produced. Desire is given to everyone—it comes with birth. Suppression is taught by society’s education. Prayer is not given at birth, and those who awaken it are one among millions. That is why Sundardas said: Seek company—seek the company of saints—where prayer is awakened.

Perhaps no devotee ever came into Freud’s experience—nor was there any reason to. Freud analyzed those who were sick, troubled, tormented. No devotee will go to have his inner states analyzed. Some Sundardas will not present his inner world before Freud. If he has to present it, he will present it to his master. Only his master will understand—one who has gone even farther in prayer. Only the one who has gone into God can understand prayer.

Now, Veena, if you were to ask this question of Freud, he would corrupt the whole process. He would say: this too is repressed desire. He would try to explain that this love is only an extension of sex, that love toward God too is only an extension of sex! That is Freud’s method of thinking. Then nothing remains except sex. And if nothing remains except sex, then nothing remains of the essence of human life—no intention, no meaning. Then there can be no transcendence of man. Then man is futile. Then being or not being is the same. If man cannot go beyond himself, there can be no value in his life. Value dawns when one goes beyond oneself.

Prayer means: to go beyond oneself. Prayer means: to go away from yourself and go toward God. Desire is ego-centered. Prayer is God-centered. Desire says “I”; prayer says “Thou.” These are two different dimensions.

The analyst who will study prayer-dreams is yet to be born; he has not been born yet. And until he is, the science of dreams that is being constructed will remain incomplete—badly incomplete.

You asked. And it is true: I met Veena nine years ago, and then she was lost. Then there was no relationship between us. Yet she remained connected and was never lost. There was no visible link; in the invisible she remained joined—in dreams, in the depths of consciousness. Her life-breath kept calling me from somewhere deep within. And that call was not in vain; it reached me. The result of that call is that her coming has happened again. In the invisible, roots kept spreading; now, in the visible, leaves have begun to appear, flowers to bloom. Preparation continued in the unseen. As a child grows in the womb, so prayer kept ripening, ripening, ripening. Now the moment of prayer’s birth has come near.

It is true that “for those nine years I remained connected to you only through dreams; no other link joined me to you. And whatever I had to say to you, or you to me, kept happening in dreams.”

It is happening rightly; it is auspicious. There is not the slightest mistake anywhere. Let it happen with such total absorption that not even the outline of doubt remains near it—and then dreams too become a bridge bringing one to truth.

In this world, everything has to become a bridge leading toward God—even dreams! Maya, too, has to be made into His doorway. It is already His doorway. From where you are, you must begin walking toward Him. This is my fundamental message to you: I do not tell you to renounce anything. I do not tell you to renounce even dreams, because dedicate even the energy of dreams to Him. Let your dreams be filled with His songs and resonance. Let dreams be surrounded by Him. Let His sunlight burn even in your dreams; let His worship descend there. Let His aarti be lifted even in dream. And what begins to descend into your dream will spread into your waking life as well. For your life is like the leaves and flowers of a tree—and your dreams are like the tree’s roots.

Your dreams are not mere dreams, because what you see and receive in dream casts its shadow and consequences upon your twenty-four-hour life.

Just consider: one night you dream you have murdered someone. In the morning you discover it was a dream; yet that day you will find your mind heavy. Though the killing happened only in dream and nothing actually occurred—no one was killed, the court will not arrest you, not a drop of blood was spilled, there are no witnesses—still the mind will remain dejected, sad, filled with guilt. Whether a murder occurred is not the point; the impulse to murder did arise in you.

This is the difference between sin and crime. Crime means: the impulse arose and the deed followed accordingly. Sin means: the impulse arose, and sin happened—whether or not the deed occurred, whether or not the court can seize you; before the Supreme Energy you have become guilty.

When a person murders someone, first the impulse arises; the act does not come first. Before committing murder, who knows how many times he thinks of it! Thinking and thinking, brooding and brooding, he condenses the impulse. Then the impulse becomes so dense that the murder has to be done.

In Dostoevsky’s famous novel Crime and Punishment there is a student, Raskolnikov. In the building opposite where he lives, an old woman lives—she must be over eighty. She can hardly see, cannot walk properly, and her trade is a dangerous one: she takes things in pawn. She is a great miser. Whoever falls into her hands, she sucks him dry. His things never return. The interest is such that even that cannot be paid—how will the principal be paid? Raskolnikov lives opposite, a university student. From his window he watches—every day people get trapped. Whoever gets caught in her web is finished, as if a spider spreads a web and she spreads hers.

Raskolnikov thinks: what is to be done with this old woman? She has so much! No son, no daughter, no one before or behind. Half the city’s houses are hers. So much money. Why is she sucking people’s blood? Thinking like this, an idea arises in him: it would be good if someone killed her. Her existence brings no benefit to the world; there is no need for her; she is of no use; there is no meaning left in her own life. She stands on the threshold of death, one foot already in the grave. If someone were to kill her, who knows how many would be freed! Her death could not be a sin; killing her would be a virtuous act of a kind.

He only thinks like this. Then his exams approach. The fees must be paid, but no money arrives from home, so he goes to pawn his watch with the old woman. It is evening; she cannot see properly. She takes his watch near the light to examine it. While she is looking at the watch in the light, there is no one else in the room; they are on the third floor. Raskolnikov stands behind. Suddenly, something happens to him—he picks up whatever is at hand and strikes her on the head. Her back is toward him. The old woman falls. She was anyway about to fall—like a dry leaf; it did not take long to kill her, nor was any special blow needed—just a slight strike, and she fell. Then he comes to his senses: What have I done! He trembles, panics, runs—no one has seen him, no witnesses. He returns to his room, but he cannot understand: Why did I kill her? The impulse kept condensing, although he had never thought, “I will kill her.” He only thought, “It would be good if someone killed her.” He had never thought that thinking in this way would become an act.

Impulses become acts. The process of becoming sin comes first, then crime. Sin is the seed; crime is its culmination. Even if crime does not happen, sin has happened. Crime is a social act; sin is a religious act.

So if you have murdered someone in a dream, you will find yourself enveloped in a sadness all day. Your hands feel full of blood; you will wash them many times that day. And if on some night you save someone drowning in a river, you will feel all day a joy, a delicate fragrance surrounding you—even though the person you saved was not drowning, there was no one drowning—it was only a dream! Even the ripples of a dream move and stir you.

The science of dreams was well developed in the East—so much so that the very capacity to dream, and the methods to dream as you wish, were discovered.

Not only waking can be changed; dreams can be changed too. You can become the creator of your dreams. A devotee, unknowingly, becomes the creator of his dreams. He falls asleep remembering God. As sleep descends, the remembrance continues to resound—a soft, soft sound of remembrance—and then sleep takes hold. But the remembrance slips from the conscious into the unconscious. If he is a devotee of Krishna, he sees Krishna at night, plays the rasa with Him, dances with Him; the flute is heard.

And note this: it will bear fruit in life. The flute you heard today in dream, tomorrow you will hear in waking. For the foundations laid in dream will raise their domes in waking.

Dream and waking are conjoined. Why? Because the dreamer is you, the waker is you—you are present in both. The one who dreams is the one who wakes. And as one dreams, so will be one’s waking. The lover too, unknowingly, becomes the creator of his dreams.

Veena, you have loved—a deep love! You have prayed. The results of that prayer have begun. First they descended in dream; now they have begun to spread into your outer life as well. Now your whole life will be filled with it. There is no need to go into analysis. Taste its nectar.

Every day He manifests within—
but our ears do not hear that quiet tone.
Every day He manifests without—
but before the blazing flame our breath hides.
Going into some corner,
every day the Lord keeps turning back
after coming up to us!

God knocks at your door every day. The sound of His knocking is soft. When your ears become capable of hearing, become sensitive, you will recognize the knock.

Every day God calls from within—in your dreams too, in your sleep! His chariot comes. His hands reach out to you. He is seeking you. Abandon this delusion that only you are seeking God. Your seeking alone will not suffice; the fire must burn from both sides for results to come. He too is seeking.

The feelings of the heart become song—
they become song.
Breaking bonds and barriers,
again and again these songs surge;
rising on the wings of notes,
they soar to the word-luminous sky.
The feelings of the heart become song—
they become song.

When form enters the eyes,
when color arrives,
then the swan of the mind,
fluttering, leaves the lake
and flies across the blue firmament—
lost, who knows in which direction.
The feelings of the heart become song—
they become song.

Who is known, what is gathered,
how birth, in what way decay—
who can know?
Yet these feelings of the earth
fly to the sky—
the feelings of the heart become song,
they become song.

The feelings that grow dense within you become your dreams; they become your songs; they become your deeds. Slowly, your whole life is covered by them. Let the covering happen.

Let distinctions dissolve—between truth and dream. Those are differences of logic; otherwise, there is only one. That which is dream is that which is truth. That which is the world is that which is nirvana.

A stream falls from a height, breaking the silence;
a star shatters, cleaving the sky.
The earth fills silently with moonlight.
The love in the eyes drips and seeps into the life-breath
when the hem of the Formless brushes past.
When so much happens at once,
the silence breaks, a line is drawn,
light spreads.
Sky, earth, and mind become one;
the difference between stream and star is lost.

Then nothing can be told—what is true, what is false.

When the hem of the Formless brushes past,
so much happens at once—
sky, earth, and mind become one;
the difference between stream and star is lost.

Love is the science of non-division.

I am waking you—waking you even in your waking! And if you are connected with me, I will wake you even in your sleep. I call to you when you sit with open eyes. And if you are connected with me, I will call to you even when you are in deep trance, in sleep. I will begin to descend into your dreams—the door of the heart should be found open.

Rise—open your eyes, the dawn has broken.
The dark night of ages is over.
The air comes bearing new life,
the morning breeze brings a new song.
The bud has opened in a new form,
a new color spreads with the ray.
Ask not of the joy of the lotus petals—
the shadow of sadness has vanished from all.
Rise—open your eyes, the dawn has broken.
The dark night of ages is over.

Why have I called to you? Why am I busy coloring you? For this very reason—not only that your waking be colored, but that your dreams be colored too.

The human mind has four states: waking, with which we are familiar; dream, of which faint glimpses remain to us in the morning; then deep sleep, of which we remember nothing—only a sense that “I slept deeply last night; it was very peaceful; even dreams did not come”—a negative aftertaste. And then there is a fourth state—turiya. I have to lead you to that fourth.

The master’s companionship continues up to the third state. He will be with you in waking, in dream, in deep sleep. Until the master pushes you from the threshold of deep sleep into turiya, he remains with you. And to say that when he pushes you into turiya the companionship drops is not quite right; when he pushes you into turiya, the master is no longer the master, the disciple no longer the disciple—the two become one. For companionship, two are required. Therefore, up to deep sleep there is companionship; beyond deep sleep, there is unity.

That night is gone
which till now
kept giving colored dreams.
Fly, O bird—
the rays that,
with a tender touch,
have given you their beloved introduction—
now make them your own.
Fly, O bird—

Now there is only light, light
upon the earth, upon the sky;
these waves of light,
brighter and ever brighter,
in which inert and conscious,
moving and unmoving—
all float.
Fly, O bird!

Veena, the moment to fly has come! The moment to unite has come! The moment to dissolve has come. Now drop the thoughts of the intellect. Do not fall into the anxiety of analysis. Now—what is dream, what is truth—leave such analysis to those who have nothing else to do. You—descend, drown, drink.

Just as the meaning of love has opened, so will the meaning of Vedanta—have a little patience. Once love has opened, Vedanta will open inevitably, because love is the key to Vedanta.

Vedanta is a very lovely word; that Vedantins spoiled it is another matter. They turned its meaning into its opposite—that is another matter. But the word Vedanta is truly wondrous. Its essence is uniquely revolutionary. The word is fiery.

Vedanta means: where all scriptures come to an end, where the Vedas end, where the Vedas reach their limit—there begins the Divine.

Vedanta means: where words stop, doctrines stop, scriptures stop—there truth begins. Where do words, doctrines, scriptures go? When do they go? When love arises.

Hence, love is the key to Vedanta. One who has known love will worry about no other scripture. The supreme scripture is already in his hands. Now he will read only love, chant only love. Now he will dive only into love. Now he has found the tavern—what has he to do with temples? Now he has become a drunkard. Now he begins to drown. The Divine has already called him.

When I give you a name, I give it for many reasons. You are right: when I gave you the name “Prem Vedanta,” you were brimming with hatred and hostility from head to toe.

Hatred and hostility are expressions of the same energy from which love is made. Hatred is love’s distorted form. If love does not arise, that very energy becomes hate. If creation does not blossom in life, that energy turns to destruction. One who cannot build starts tearing down. Energy will do something—some form of it will manifest.

Therefore I do not tell you to drop hatred. You could not drop it anyway. Hatred is not the disease; the disease is that love has not been born. If love does not arise, the treasure of love you brought with you will rot; its stench is hatred. Let love begin to flow and you will suddenly find the stench gone.

A flowing river does not become dirty. Much rubbish falls into it—indeed all the filth of cities falls into it—yet it remains pristine. Its current keeps it clean. But there is also a stagnant pool. Rubbish falls into it too, and everything rots. A terrible stench begins to rise.

In the lives of those without love, the stench of hatred will be there; they are like stagnant pools. In the lives of those with love, there is a current. Trash does fall in—it always will—but what does the current care for trash! It carries everything away, throws it into the distant ocean. And the ocean is vast; it absorbs everything, assimilates everything.

Seeing you were full of hatred, I gave you the name “Prem”—to remind you that you had turned your wealth into a calamity. You were doing a headstand for no reason. Stand on your feet. You had inverted your energy. And now you say that, sitting at my feet, you have felt the touch of love’s philosopher’s stone. Now you understand the meaning of “Prem,” why I gave you that name. Naturally the question arises: why did I add “Vedanta” to it?

If love is not connected with Vedanta, it can go only so far, and then it will get stuck. Just as a river must join the ocean, love must join Vedanta. The river’s ultimate consummation is the ocean; love’s ultimate consummation is Vedanta.

By “Vedanta” I do not mean what the Vedantins mean. That sect which goes by the name Vedanta has nothing to do with it. I take Vedanta in its pure sense only as this: where the Vedas drop, where words drop; where language falls silent; where nothing remains to be said; where the ineffable arrives and the inexpressible is beheld! The river has begun to flow—you are no longer a stagnant pool. The ocean too will come. What has happened guarantees what is to happen. Now, trust.

If hatred can become love, the great miracle has already happened: the pool has become a river and begun to flow; stillness has turned to movement. The next will be easy. Just keep sitting as you have, allow the touch of this philosopher’s stone as you have so far. Do not run away in haste, because it often happens that people think, “Enough—now let’s go. Now let’s stand on our own feet.” I too want you to stand on your own feet—but wait for me to say so. Otherwise you will not know how much more could have been. You will know only as much as has already happened. And often, when a poor man gets a little wealth, he thinks he has gained an entire empire. How immense your treasure is, how great a wealth you can become master of—you will not know until you truly become its master.

Let satsang continue. Love has come; Vedanta will come. The very word makes it clear that I am to take you into a state of consciousness, into an awareness where the changeless, formless, qualityless abides. I am to take you back to the source from which we have arisen and to which we must return, so the circle is completed.

Love is the journey; Vedanta is the sacred shore, the destination. Love is the arrow; Vedanta is the target. The arrow has been loosed; now the target is not far. Do not worry about the target; give all your energy to the arrow—let there be swiftness and intensity—so that the arrow neither stalls nor strays. Many distractions come on the way, many obstacles arise; all must be crossed.

And remember: only the one who sets out meets difficulties; the one who sits still has no reason for trouble. Only the walker can fall; the sitter—why would he fall? Those who climb mountain heights take risks. If they fall, they fall hard. Hence religion has been called the edge of a sword, arduous and perilous.

You have set out. In my vision, there is movement in your feet. The ocean is not far from the one who walks. The single great impediment in this world is that people become stagnant pools—pools of scriptures: Hindu, Muslim, Christian. You have begun to flow; now you are neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. Now you are nobody. Now you belong to God, and God belongs to you. Yet some scraps of scripture may still be snagged. From your pace I sense that something remains a little stuck. The current is still moving slowly. There are still rocks of scripture—lying in the unconscious, deep, accumulated over lifetimes—you may not even be aware of them.

Bertrand Russell wrote in his memoirs: I was raised as a Christian. When I grew up, I lost faith in Christianity—indeed, in all religions. He wrote a very famous book: Why I Am Not a Christian? No Christian has yet been able to answer it. Years have passed—Russell has already left the world—but the book remains unanswered. The questions he raised still stand as they were.

Russell wrote: I lost faith in all religions—certainly in Christianity—then I became acquainted with Buddha. This man seemed extraordinary. It felt as if history has never seen a purer expression of truth. No greater human being has walked the earth. My intellect sees it clearly. But whenever I look within, I have never been able, in my innermost unconscious, to place Buddha above Jesus. I am free of Christianity; the impressions of childhood are gone. My intellect has clearly established that Buddha’s teaching is deeper. And it is true: no one’s words are as pure as Buddha’s. Many have spoken truth—Jesus, Mohammed, Krishna, Mahavira—but none has spoken it with the ultimate purity of Buddha. All realized the same truth—but Buddha’s capacity to express it is unparalleled. Still, Russell writes: in my deep mind I can place Buddha only at number two, not number one. Number one remains Jesus. I know it, I think it—but thinking and knowing do not do the work. Conditionings sit very deep.

So, Prem Vedanta—yes, I gave you Vedanta as a name; it is my hope for you, that it may become your reality. But the Vedas still remain—whether you call them Qur’an or Bible, it makes no difference. Scriptures are still snagged somewhere. Your current has started; it is even flowing by finding its way through the scriptures. But it is still flowing among rocks; it is not yet unobstructed. If you keep sitting, keep taking my blows, keep enduring—if you allow your head to be cut—one day the stream will flow without hindrance. That day you will know what Vedanta is.

Vedanta cannot be said; but I have shown the path of experience. I have given you the key. Love is the key.

Look as a blind man looks and it is fleeting—here now, gone now!
Morning dew on a blade of grass; the sun will rise, it will vanish.
Passengers sitting in a boat, as Sundardas has said: they meet for a moment; when the boat touches the far shore, each departs on their own way.
Or like the fair of birds gathered on a tree at dusk: they sleep through the night, the sun will rise, in the morning they will fly away.

Seen in stupor, life is just like this—

The light of day—like mustard blossoms,
like mustard blossoms—
it ripples in the tide;
from earth to sky,
one hue,
forms diverse;
from earth to sky
beauty is spread—like mustard blossoms,
like mustard blossoms.
Stored-up joy takes wing,
opening the wings of song,
like waves
it plays,
opening the wings of song;
this splendor will shed away—like mustard blossoms,
like mustard blossoms.

You look at a mustard bloom—now it withers, now it’s gone! You look at the morning’s sinking star—now gone, in a moment gone! Such is life, seen in stupor—ephemeral!

Fastened to each breath,
woven of each thread—
who knows when it will break?
What certainty?
What certainty has life?

On the waves, lamps are set afloat;
how long can a little lamp
carry the light?
The light is imperishable—
what is its identity?
What certainty has life?

From the hands it slips—
it slips away;
from the strings it snaps—
it snaps away.
Bonds, relations—what?
What hoard?
What certainty has life?

This life you know—

Fastened to each breath,
woven of each thread—
who knows when it will break?
What certainty?
What certainty has life?

Life is a marvel. The breath that has gone may perhaps not return. There is no guarantee. Whoever entangles himself in this life, whoever in this stupor takes it to be all, goes badly astray. There is another life—the eternal life. And it will be hard for you to grasp that that life and this life are not two. The difference is between stupor and awakening; life itself is one. See it in stupor, it appears ephemeral; see it awake, it appears eternal. For those who have seen awake, death becomes false, life becomes eternal. For those who see while asleep, death seems true, life seems false.

Do you not see—nothing is certain in life except death! Everything else is uncertain; one thing is certain: death. What a life is this, in which nothing is certain except death! A wife may leave, a bank may collapse, the government may change the law, thousand-rupee notes may be withdrawn—nothing is certain. But one thing is certain: death will come.

What kind of life is this, in which only death is certain! No—some mistake is being made. Those who have seen awake have found life to be eternal and death to be false. Ask the Buddhas, the awakened ones, and they will say: death is false, life is true. What you have known is just this:

Crafting lovely pictures,
this empty sky adorned itself;
it showed melody, it showed color,
moment to moment it stole the heart with its visions.
The clouds have gone away.

Now the sky is blue—blue,
one savor, dark and delightful;
the earth yellow-green, juicy,
a winter morning, radiant, moist.
The clouds have gone away.

Two days of joy, two days of sorrow—
sorrow and joy both are companions in the world;
sometimes laughter, sometimes tears,
life, ever-new waves, in this world.
The clouds have gone away.

Like a guest who stayed for two days, the clouds have gone away!

Just that—“like a guest who stayed for two days.”

Wake up from this life!

Hidden in this life is one element: your witnessing. Do not only look at the dewdrop—you have seen enough dewdrops. Do not only look at bubbles forming on water—you have seen enough forming and bursting. Do not get entangled in rainbows—you have seen enough rise and fade. Now seek the one who sees; the one who saw the drops form and dissolve; who saw the rainbows arise and vanish. Many guests have come and gone; now recognize the host.

The Zen masters say: long were we entangled with the guests—now recognize the host. Who is it within you that sees everything? Pleasure and pain, success and failure, honor and disgrace; life and death! Who is it within you that sees? The day you begin to see that, that day your link with the Eternal is forged. Only by knowing that witness does the real flavor of life arrive.

Never think of moksha, nirvana, or samadhi in the language of rank or position—otherwise the ego will climb onto your head. Behind “position” the ego will hide itself; that is its language. Think of it as emptiness, as dissolving, as death.

Do not ask, “How did you reach this position?” Ask instead, “How did you disappear?” When the person disappears, the divine is. When the drop disappears, it becomes the ocean. Let the drop fall into the ocean. True, once the drop falls into the ocean it becomes the ocean—but it becomes the ocean only when it is lost as a drop.

If from the very beginning you think in the language of position, you will be afraid to lose yourself. That is the race of the ego—let me become this, let me become that, let me be wealthy, let me be famous! Ego is ambition.

Some days ago I was reading Robin Maugham’s book, Conversations with Maugham. Somerset Maugham was among the most famous writers of this century—and among the wealthiest. I was shocked when I came to this passage. One day his nephew asked him, “What is the happiest memory of your life?” Maugham stammered and said, “I… I cannot recall even a single such moment.” The nephew was startled!

Maugham’s long life is a story of success upon success, climbing from one rung of fame to the next. World renown—such as no other writer in the entire century! And Maugham says, “I cannot recall a single moment I would call a happy memory of my life!”

The nephew writes: I looked around the drawing room at the costly furniture, objets d’art, priceless paintings—the very symbols of Maugham’s success. Perhaps there was no more beautifully appointed palace on earth! I remembered that this villa on the Mediterranean and its gardens were worth six hundred thousand pounds—about ten million rupees. Maugham had eleven servants at his constant beck and call. He ate from platters of solid gold. He had a heap of objects studded with diamonds and jewels.

The nephew could hardly believe it, but he let the matter rest that day. The next afternoon, he writes, I saw Maugham half-reclining on the sofa, poring over the pages of a Bible printed in very large type. His eyes had grown weak and he could read only books printed in large letters; in his final days he read nothing but the Bible. His face was very grave. He said to me, “You sent this Bible, didn’t you? I found this sentence: ‘What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’ Jesus’ famous saying.”

And Maugham said, “My dear Robin! Let me tell you—when I was a small child, this sentence hung beside my bed. But I did not understand it then, and I lost my whole life. You know, when I die, all these things will be snatched away from me—these gardens, every single tree in them, this entire villa, this furniture, every arm and leg of this furniture. I tell you, I will not be able to take even a table with me. I have been an outright failure—failed in every way, all my life!”

He went on, “I kept making mistake after mistake. I messed everything up. And when I was a small child, this very sentence hung beside my cradle: ‘What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’”

The nephew tried to console him: “Come now, today you are the most renowned of living writers. Your banners of fame fly across the world in every language. There is no language into which your books have not been translated; there is no place where you are not known, where you are not honored. Surely this means something?”

Somerset Maugham replied, “I wish I had not written even a single letter. This thing has brought me nothing but sorrow. Whoever became acquainted with me ended as my enemy. My whole life has been a failure. But now it is far too late; I cannot change. It is too late. And I tell you again: when I was a small child, this saying hung beside my cradle—‘What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’ But now it is too late, much too late; I will not be able to change.”

Within three or four days, Somerset Maugham died.

These are the stories of “successful” men—of those who have “reached the top.”

No—do not speak the language of position; the ego is very cunning. It will ride the word “position” like a horse. Off you go—and the ego says, “Fine, we’ll attain samadhi, become a siddha, become a Buddha!”

A young man put his head at Buddha’s feet and said, “I have come having sworn an oath: I will leave only after becoming a Buddha.” Buddha said, “Then it has become difficult; that very thing will be the obstacle. Drop it—drop this. Who took this oath? The ego that took this oath is itself the obstacle. The very ego with which you have made this resolve is the wall.”

Buddhahood arrives when there remains no impulse in the mind to become anything—when even the urge to become a Buddha is gone. Samadhi fructifies when not even the desire for samadhi remains—when craving itself has ended. When one is content with what is, where one is—utterly content, fulfilled. When contentment is so dense that there is nothing to do and nothing to become—at that very moment, that blessed moment, the divine descends.

In the moment of contentment the divine arrives. The status-seeker—whether his positions are of this world or the next, it makes no difference—never arrives. The status-seeker only wanders.

You ask, “How did you reach this position?”

This is not a position. Here within me there is nothing like an “I.” Arrival happens only when the arriver has disappeared.

“Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir himself was lost.” When, in searching, even the seeker is lost—then there is union, the ultimate union.

Certainly, meditation is a solitary journey; but who told you it means loneliness? The Divine will be with you. On the journey of the world you are alone; God is not with you—remember this. And those you have taken as companions are just a boat-on-the-river coincidence. Strangers have gathered in a boat. One has become a wife, one a husband, one a son, one a brother, one a friend—strangers collected in a boat. And for a little while we have staged such games in that boat—of infatuation, attachment, passion!

Here you are utterly alone. But you have created the illusion that “all are there—brother, wife, son, friend. The family is there, my loved ones are there.” And you are completely alone. Just think—think again. Lift the curtain and look within once more: are you not absolutely alone? The wife is outside, the husband is outside; within, you are all alone.

So let me say something that sounds odd, even paradoxical: in the world, people are utterly alone; in meditation, you find the company of the Divine. But to those who believe there is companionship in the world, I must say: in meditation you will have to be alone. This companionship—this false companionship—must be dropped, so the real companion can be found.

For a little while you should forget the husband, the wife, the children. For a little while, close your eyes and be utterly alone, as in truth you are—no one’s husband, no one’s wife, no one’s father, no one’s mother—unrelated. Unattachment is meditation. At least for one hour out of twenty-four, become unattached. Forget that you have any ties. Step outside all the games. Put away these card-games for a while. These kings and queens of the deck—leave them for a while. Close your eyes for a little while and be completely alone.

That is why I say: become alone—but don’t think it means you become lonely; lonely you already were. The moment you become truly alone, you will suddenly find: God is present with you. The real companion, the true friend, is present. And his presence is not that of a stranger; he is your innermost core, the lamp burning within you.

Go on alone
If none walks with you upon the pilgrim’s hour,
go on alone.

If these feet of yours simply stand still,
what will the onlookers say of you?
Do not be cramped, do not be frozen—
this sweet hour of the quest:
go on alone.

Breath—your companion, wave upon wave, moment by moment,
and at every footprint the familiar grains of the path.
You are the adornment of the void,
the gift yourself—what need of the fair?
Go on alone.

The world-life, the mute day’s life-breathing tone;
on compact mountain-crests, the charming waterfall—
fulfilled is the life that plays
the world’s game as sheer delight:
go on alone.

Play outside—it is a game. The outer is a fair; play it, play it to the full, play with rejoicing—but remember, don’t forget: it is a fair, and you are alone. And there is that other journey, too, to undertake.

You are the adornment of the void,
the gift yourself—what need of the fair?
Go on alone.

There, you will have to go alone. Whom will you take with you inside? How could you? All are outside; they will be left outside. Within, you will go alone, will you not? How will you invite your wife: “Come, come with me”?

But I understand the tenor of your question. This is not only your fear; it is the fear of many. That is why people are afraid of meditation, they avoid it—because meditation means going outside the fair. And you have become so habituated to the carnival that unless the pushing and jostling goes on, it doesn’t feel as if things are “going right.” The more the bumping and shoving, the greater the crush and bustle, the more you feel something is happening. The moment you are alone, the question arises: Who am I, and what am I doing? In the crowd you forget; you fall into oblivion. The real questions of life are forgotten, and false questions become important.

Someone gives you a hard shove—there is a quarrel. Where is there space to remember yourself? Someone embraces you, loves you—where is there space to remember yourself?

Your loves and your quarrels, your friendships and your enmities—all do one thing: they keep you tangled, they keep you busy. They give you no chance to take a small look within. There, you must move on alone.

Go on alone
If none walks with you upon the pilgrim’s hour,
go on alone.

Yes, fear arises in becoming solitary—but only until you truly enter it. Once you do, you will be astonished: peace, aloneness, silence. When the experience of inner solitude dawns, you will be amazed—fear vanishes. Because in that solitude it is known that you are nectar, amrit—“amritasya putrah,” children of immortality! You have no death; how can there be fear? You yourself are the Divine—pure sat-chit-ananda, being-consciousness-bliss. What can frighten you? The whole existence is yours; everything is with you. You were never alone, nor can you ever be alone. But before this experience, you will have to be alone. You must turn your eyes a little away from this false companionship, turn your back on it a little. The process of turning the back is called meditation.

And don’t be afraid. As Sundardas has said again and again: accept it if you can. I too say to you: accept it if you can!

In aloneness, the companionship of God is found. Then no one remains alone. The path has been shown to you; how to descend the stairs within has been told to you. But descending—you will have to do it.

I have found the path;
now I
must walk—
I walk.
Whether it is day or night,
let obstacles
come;
good if there is companionship—
all the better—
but having understood,
I have come this way.
Now I
have found the path.
Now I—
what worry?
what doubt?
What is wrong with aloneness?
One must walk.
There is the power of movement,
the mind a waterfall
within the mountain of the body.
From sound, from music,
I have found my aid—
now I have found the path,
now I.
From sound, from music,
I have found my aid.

Just walk a little within; listen to the inner unstruck sound—anahat nad. That very music will become your companion. That very music will carry you deeper and deeper, and one day you will find that you are no more. Only God is—“you” never were. Your companions were false, and in the same way, the “you” was false.

The “I” is false, the “you” is false. Truth is where neither I remains nor you remain. In Sundardas’s words: “Na mharo na tharo”—neither mine nor thine.

This solitude has an incomparable beauty. In this solitude there is an incomparable music. The experience of this solitude is truth.

Sunshine—beautiful;
in the sun
the world’s form—beautiful,
natural, beautiful.
Sky limpid,
as much as can be seen,
as much as can be touched,
the earth’s splendor—
its rippling forms—beautiful,
simple, beautiful.
Young greenness,
its unique pride and grace;
red, yellow,
and blue—
flowers of every hue—beautiful.
Sunshine—beautiful;
in the sun the world’s form—beautiful.
Dew-drops
wearing garlands,
fashioning
a rainbow sheen;
the crops, the grasses—
everywhere, beautiful.
Sunshine—beautiful;
in the sun the world’s form—beautiful.
In dense golden
waves,
bloom,
greenery,
winsome—
the swaying mustard,
trembling in the breeze—
a rare beauty.
Sunshine—beautiful.
Silent, solitary,
I watch the waves,
I watch—
this ineffability—
I only watch.
I wonder:
will I ever
be able to find
in this way,
so wave-like
and pure,
the beautiful
form of man?
Sunshine—beautiful;
in the sun the world’s form—beautiful—
natural, beautiful.

It comes—an infinite beauty comes.

Silent, solitary,
I watch the waves,
I watch—
this ineffability—
I only watch.

Have you seen the beauty of the world? A far greater beauty lies hidden within you. These flowers are beautiful, this sunlight is beautiful, this sky is beautiful, this form is beautiful; but greater than all these is the form hidden within you. The flower of consciousness puts all these flowers to shame. That is why we have called it the thousand-petaled lotus—the sahasradal kamal—as if a golden lotus with thousands upon thousands of petals has bloomed, whose radiance is indescribable and whose fragrance is eternal.

You don’t know what lies within you. Hence you are afraid to go within. And outside—there is nothing—and you go on running. When, who, has found anything outside? Running, people fall and die. Running, people reach only the grave—where else do they reach?

What difference does it make whether one is cremated at some small village burning ground or at Delhi’s Rajghat—what difference? If you strive greatly, you may reach Rajghat—so what then? And whether the funeral pyre’s wood was ordinary or sandalwood—what difference? And whether the ashes were submerged in a simple clay pot in some pond or carried in golden urns and consigned to the Ganga—what difference?

One thing is certain: here, all that we do dissolves—turns to dust. Yet there you go fearlessly—where every kind of fear should arise you go without fear, and where there should be no fear, there you are afraid! You are afraid to go within. And there sits the King of kings, the Lord of lords; within sits your innermost being—your immortal essence.

Do not fear—move on. No one can accompany you there; you must go alone. But this much assurance I give you: the moment you arrive, you will find you are not alone—God is with you. And that is the true companionship; all the rest are illusions of company.

As it should be, that is exactly what is happening. This is proper; it has always been so. If society did not oppose what I say, my words would not be true. Only when society opposes my words is there proof that there is some truth in them.

Society only opposes truth. With lies society is always at ease. Lies cannot harm society; society digests them and makes them part of itself. It cannot digest truth. Hence Jesus has to be crucified. Hence Socrates has to be given poison. Hence stones have to be thrown at Buddha.

What is happening is right. It is just as it should be; it is happening according to the law. Do not be anxious about it. Do not waste time in it. What I am saying is of a kind that society will not tolerate. Only a few brave individuals can bear it. Society is a contract of lies. Society has no concern with the search for truth. Society does not even want seekers of truth, because seekers always become a nuisance for society; they begin to shatter society’s hypocrisy and lies. They disturb the comfortable, smoothly running arrangement of life; they send ripples and upheavals through it.

People get angry when you break their beliefs—not because they have some deep love for those beliefs. Haven’t you seen? A Hindu may never go to the temple, but if you say something against his temple, he is ready to fight. He doesn’t go to worship; there is no love for the temple, yet if you speak against it, he will certainly fight. Curious, isn’t it? The very one who has no love is ready to kill and be killed. A Muslim may or may not read the Quran, may or may not understand it, but any word contrary to the Quran becomes intolerable. Why? Because whenever you strike at someone’s beliefs you pull the ground out from under his feet. By leaning on those beliefs he stands reassured that everything is okay. “I’m not going to the temple today, but when needed I’ll go. The temple is there; I’m at ease. I didn’t take the name of Ram today—no harm; I’ll take it at the time of death. There is a refuge, a support; there is a cozy reassurance.”

And you have said, “Taking the name of Ram will do nothing; Ram has no name.” Now you have frightened him, made him restless. He had a certain order, a security—you snatched it away. With that prop he was moving along happily—“I’ll chant the name sometime.” He thought, “Let sins accumulate, no worry; I’ll go bathe in the Ganges.” And you say, “Are you mad? Does bathing in the Ganges wash away sins? Water may wash the body’s dirt, the dust of the skin, but how will water touch the soul? How will water separate sins from the soul?” You have put him in difficulty. He was committing sins with perfect ease—stealing, taking bribes, giving bribes—everything going on. In the back of his mind there was a plan: someday I’ll go to Prayag, I’ll take a dip in the Ganges. The Ganges is not very far. Everything will be settled. You have taken away his support, his hope; you have put him in a dilemma: now what? You have made him anxious—how can he not be angry?

So if people are angry with me, the fault is mine, not theirs. What I am saying makes them angry. I too am helpless: I can only say what is right. They too are helpless: they cannot tolerate what is right, because they have made deep friendships with untruth. Their vested interests are tied to it.

A few days ago a couple came to see me—a young man and woman. They were delighted, eager to get married, very happy. For a moment I felt like saying nothing to them, their joy was such—although it was not going to last; in a day or two, with the first gusts of rain, the color would run. Still, seeing their happiness I thought, let me not say anything. Let them be happy for a few days. But they insisted, “Please tell us the truth. Should we marry or not? What is the truth of marriage?”

I said, “There is no truth to marriage. It is a game. If you want to play, play. But it is a dangerous game, because getting in is easy, getting out is difficult. At every step the nets grow. Responsibilities keep increasing. Then don’t blame me later.” They both became sad. They said, “We had come for your blessing.” I said, “I give blessings. Rishis and sages have always given blessings—but nobody’s blessing has yet worked on marriage; mine will not work either. Marriage is such a matter—what can a blessing do? This is why people seek blessings: maybe the blessing will make it work.” They grew dejected; I saw annoyance in their eyes. I said, “Go ahead and marry; I’ll bless you too. What does it cost me to bless? But let me tell you this: afterwards, don’t hold me responsible. This is only for a few days. A wind has arisen and it will pass. Such winds come and go. If you must stake your life, stake it on something bigger, on some greater search. If you want to build a home, build the real home. What is the use of this house? So many have built it and are in such misery—do their lives not open your eyes?”

The young man said, “What has happened to everyone need not happen to us.”

This is man’s delusion. Each person thinks he is the exception. “Others may die; I will not die. Others may suffer; I will not suffer. Others’ love becomes a noose today or tomorrow; my love will not become a noose.”

If you speak such things to a couple eager for marriage, they will naturally be angry. And if you tell a man on the journey for wealth that wealth is trash, he will be angry.

A politician came for a blessing—he was going to contest an election. I asked, “Do you want the blessing of my heart? Do you want my blessing according to my understanding, or according to yours?” He hesitated: “What difference would there be?” “A great difference,” I said. “My blessing would be: may you lose the election—let the matter end here. Otherwise it is a long chain: if you win and become an MLA, then you will want to be deputy minister, then minister, then chief minister, then reach Delhi—and this journey is long. You will be lost in it. If you lose, then ‘losers chant the Lord’s name.’”

He said, “Please stop. Don’t say that. Words from people like you come true.”

I said, “My—”

“If you don’t want to give a blessing, don’t,” he said, “but at least don’t say, ‘losers chant the Lord’s name.’ I will take the Lord’s name, but not yet.”

People go on postponing the Lord’s name.

So you ask, “Why are society and the government against you?”

They will be. Politics is always contrary to religion. And when politics is not contrary to religion, know that that religion is not religion at all; it has become a part of politics. As long as religion is religion—as long as it is burning fire—politics will be its opposite. These are two opposite journeys. Religion is an inward journey; politics is an outward journey. Religion is the journey of egolessness; politics is the journey of ego. The whole game there is of ego. So politicians will be disturbed and angry. And with people like me they will be very angry, because I do not support them in any way—any of them. It is not that I support this kind of politician and not that kind; of whatever color or style, politicians are deranged. All politics is a pathology. The fortunate day for humankind will be the day we are free of politics.

So, naturally there will be hostility.

It begins to express itself in a thousand ways. News has begun to come that embassies around the world have been instructed that whoever wants to come to my ashram should not be allowed entry into India. Friends who go for visas—if they speak my name, their passport is stamped at once: no permission to go. Now my sannyasins have to come here under other names. One says, “I am going to Kashi to study Sanskrit.” Another says, “I am going to Sri Aurobindo’s ashram in Pondicherry.” Another says, “I am going to Sivananda Ashram in Rishikesh.” Then they get permission. Not only that: a friend came recently from Holland and reported that when he mentioned my name and his intention to come here, the officer became angry. He said, “Don’t go there at all. We won’t let you in. But if you take our advice, here are some ashrams.” He gave a list of eight ashrams—“You can go to any of these.” Muktananda’s ashram was on the list! I said, “This is exactly as it should be.”

Just a few days ago Muktananda went to hold satsang for Morarji. When a “saint” goes to hold satsang for a politician, understand what it means! It is understandable if politicians come to saints; but when saints start going to politicians, then the saints are worth two pennies. Muktananda went to conduct satsang for Morarji. Of course satsang brings benefit—that much happened. What did he say to Morarji? He said, “It is our blessed fortune, the blessed fortune of our country, that in the land of our sadhus, a sadhu-like man like you is the prime minister!”

Morarjibhai—and a sadhu! What does “sadhu” mean? A sadhu—and in politics! What has a sadhu to do with politics? So, fine, embassies would be informed. Muktananda says Morarji is a sadhu; now Morarji will say Muktananda is the real sadhu. Such mutual give-and-take goes on. How can it go on with me?

With me no mutual give-and-take is possible. I am utterly alone. And I must say what I have to say, as I have to say it—whatever the consequences. I do not want crowds. This is not a fairground to be filled. I want only those few who are truly thirsty to come here. There is every arrangement to quench their thirst. But the crowd of the unthirsty is not to be gathered here; because of their crowd, even the thirsty would remain thirsty.

And what I am saying, I say from my own witnessing. I say I am neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain. So who will be with me? Only those who are simply religious—or who have the capacity to be religious, who have dropped all adjectives—only they can be with me.

Traditionalism goes on drawing lines;
go on demolishing the very foundations of traditionalism.
Traditionalism will keep on marking boundaries;
since you have raised the banner of rebellion,
fly it to the sky.

I tell my sannyasins: you are to break tradition; you are to break the lines; you are to break all boundaries. And whatever suffering and pain comes because you break boundaries—accept it in a mood of benediction. This is your sadhana.

But truth cannot be stopped by anyone’s restraints. Neither could Socrates be stopped by giving him poison, nor Jesus by hanging him on the cross.

A moving storm cannot be halted.
A flying cloud cannot bow down.
Tiny waves, blocked, become sharp currents;
and by suppression the humming of songs will arise.
Someone may break the pen,
locks may be placed upon the lips,
yet the true will be hailed on every side—
and by suppression the humming of songs will arise.
O you who fear cries,
who hold your fingers in your ears:
a bird that flies, when caged, creates even more uproar—
and by suppression the humming of songs will arise.
Destroy them by the hundred thousand, yet they will thrive;
songs will always remain free.
The anklet may be imprisoned, but not its chime—
and by suppression the humming of songs will arise.

None of this is going to make any difference. Whether society or the government is against me, it makes no difference.

The anklet may be imprisoned, but not its chime—
and by suppression the humming of songs will arise.

These are good signs. These are beautiful tidings—news of a new rising sun. Before a new sun rises, there is always such turmoil.

You are fortunate to be with someone who can be given poison, who can be crucified. You are fortunate to be with such a man.

When the sun arrives, the night departs.
The rays have peeped in; dawn will be.
New birds of feeling are chirping today;
new flowers are fragrant in the heart today.
We are new gardeners with new ways;
we will color the world with new colors.
We will make new leaves and fruits and blossoms bloom.
When hundreds of millions of steps crush sorrow,
when we surge in waves of joy,
then the sun will smile, the breeze will laugh;
fire, water, and air will be transformed.
Raise your steps, extend your hands.
When the sun arrives, the night departs;
the rays have peeped in; dawn will be.

What I am telling you is a new ray. To join with that ray is a challenge, a struggle. But only in struggle does the soul temper; only in struggle does it shine. Only by entering the fire does gold become pure.

So do not worry about such petty things; do not even occupy your mind with such useless matters. As it is happening, it is exactly as it should be.

Lao Tzu has said: If fools do not laugh at my words, then there is no truth in them. And if the insensate do not stand in opposition to them, then there is no consciousness in them.

Whenever truth is born, the walls of untruth built over thousands of years begin to crumble. They all try to protect themselves. It is entirely natural; I see nothing accidental in it. You also should not see it as accidental. And if you don’t, a sense of acceptance will arise in you toward this too. It is good. Keep laughing. Keep singing. Keep humming. Keep dancing. We have to give this earth a glimpse of religion dancing.

And remember—
The anklet may be imprisoned, but not its chime;
by suppression the humming of songs will arise.

That’s all for today.