Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #16

Kamal Maharaj! Life neither begins nor ends. This lamp has neither ever been lit nor will it ever be extinguished. Without wick, without oil. In countless forms life has gone on; in countless forms it will go on. The flame has kept burning; only the lamps have changed—sometimes in this body, sometimes in that; sometimes in this house, sometimes in that. So do not even by mistake think that life ended and then the art of living arrived.

That which ends is not life; it is an illusion of life. That which does not end—that alone is life. And a glimpse of that is beginning to appear. Hence it feels as if the art of living has arrived. False life has ended; true life has begun. False life has childhood, youth, old age; there is birth and there is death. Dreams begin and they end. True life has neither birth nor death, neither childhood nor youth nor old age. True life is timeless. It has no age.

So in one sense you are right that when life ended the art of living arrived. False life ended. Steps have turned toward true life. A little redness of true life has come into the eyes. When the lamp was extinguished, the gathering filled with color! Only then does color come! The false lamp—what we call the ego—because of it there is stench. Because of it everything is colorless, tasteless. Let the real light be kindled—it is already burning; we need only to come to know it, to recognize it, to remember it.

Rabindranath was on a barge. Full-moon night, and with a candle lit he sat in the boat’s little cabin reading a book—on aesthetics. Midnight came; he blew out the candle. As soon as he put out the candle he was startled, astonished. For a moment he could not understand what magic had happened! The moment the candle went out, through door and windows, through every crevice, the moon entered within. He has written in his diary: a small candle’s yellow, flickering light had kept the nectar-like light of the moon outside; here the candle went out, there the moon came in. I was reading aesthetics while beauty was showering outside. I was tangled in a book while truth was knocking at the door.

He went out and danced under the moon.

Just so is this flickering lamp of ego. Because of its light the real light stands waiting outside. It knocks at the door, but because of this one’s noise and clamor it is not heard.

The auspicious hour has come, Kamal Maharaj! Now you have begun to hear. A faint fragrance has begun to arrive. And even if it comes in old age—even then it is early, because even if it comes in many lives, even then it is early.

And remember, childhood is naive, full of unknowing. Children are innocent, but their innocence is only another name for ignorance. They will wander. Their wandering is certain. Adam will be expelled from the garden of heaven. He has to go. Every child has to descend into the world. He has to tread dark paths. He has to become clever. He has to learn the tricks of the world. Distortion will come; there is no way to prevent it. This is the natural course of life. If children do not wander, they will remain unripe. Only by wandering will they ripen; only then will life’s sun ripen them.

So childhood is naive, forgivable. Youth is swooned, unconscious. It is full of intoxication. Nature uses youth by making it unconscious. The young man thinks, “I am doing.” He is deluded. Nature is making it happen. A young man falls in love with a young woman, or a young woman with a young man; they think, “We are in love.” Nature laughs! It is nature’s arrangement; you have been caught in its snare. Nature has no purpose with you, nor with your beloved; nature’s purpose is simply that life should not disappear from the world. Nature’s concern is with progeny. A child should be born. Before you wither, the stream of life should not run dry.

It is a blind process of nature that children must be born. But just think: if the glamour of love did not arise, if love’s swoon did not come, if love’s magic did not fill the eyes, who would get into the trouble of children? What woman would carry a child in her womb for nine months—and for what? Why would she bear the pain of childbirth? And why would a man take knocks all his life in offices or break stones on the roads to bring up children? For what reason? What has he to gain? But nature has given such a deep swoon, such a hypnosis, that in that swoon man does everything.

Nature’s only purpose with the male is that the reservoirs of life-energy within you should not be wasted. Before you are destroyed, those reservoirs of life-energy should go into some womb and plant their roots. That is all the purpose. Then, whether you die or become a member of parliament—do as you like. Nature’s total desire is only this; there is no other desire.

Therefore in many insects this event occurs that the male dies while copulating. You will be amazed to know, some spiders, while mating, actually eat their lovers. Once conception is secured, the matter is finished. And the male is so spellbound he does not even understand. He is so intoxicated. He is mating, and the female spider begins to eat him. His work is finished. But until conception happens, she does not eat him; as soon as conception happens, she does. Many insects copulate only once and die. The work is done. Nature has taken its work from them.

Youth is a swoon. Man’s throat is in the hands of nature. It is very difficult that someone in youth attains awareness. It happens sometimes, but it is extremely difficult.

Old age is the most convenient for awakening. The childish unknowing is gone, and the clevernesses of life have ripened you. You have tried deceits and cheats and have gained nothing. You have known and recognized the futility of deceiving. Now there is no taste in it. Now again a new innocence begins to arise. The child’s innocence was natural; but now an innocence born of experience comes. The rush of youth was swooned; now a little awareness has come into the feet.

Therefore in the Eastern lands we have honored the elder. And the great mistake of the West is that the elder’s honor is being lost there. In whatever country, society, culture the honor of the elder is lost, understand that in that culture and society the place of God has ended. The elder is honored only when our ties with God are alive. For old age is the most conducive to the experience of God. The swoon of youth has broken; you have seen the pleasures, their futility, their nuisances. From far the drums were sweet; having come near, you have known they are only drums. The childish unknowing has also gone.

In old age there is the possibility that now man can rise beyond nature. To rise beyond nature is the very meaning of rising beyond the body. Body means nature. The young cannot rise beyond the body; it is difficult, extremely difficult, a matter of great struggle. Therefore those religions that gave the message of liberation to the young had to pass through great struggle. Their process became that of resolve, because one has to fight. The Jains, for example, declared that the young should renounce. They have their reasons. The reason is that the young have great energy. If so much energy is turned toward the divine, the progress will be swift—this is true. But this energy is such that to direct it is very difficult. This energy is already directed toward nature. It is in a swoon. The young are not yet so experienced as to awaken. Therefore the entire Jain discipline became one of suppression, of repression.

The Hindu discipline is more natural, more easy. The Hindus divided life into four spans of twenty-five years, assuming a human lifespan of a hundred years. Suppose we take a hundred as a notional age: twenty-five years for learning, dwelling in the gurukul. All energy is to be invested in preparing for life—brahmacharya, celibacy. And you will be surprised to know that the student was taught brahmacharya precisely so that in the coming householder life he could enter into the deepest possible experience of enjoyment. You will be surprised to know that for the student brahmacharya’s teaching was not for brahmacharya as an end. Its aim was not celibacy; its aim was to attain the peak of enjoyment. Because only one who has energy can reach the climax of enjoyment. And only one who reaches the climax of enjoyment can go beyond enjoyment. Otherwise enjoyment keeps one stuck. How will you renounce what you have not tasted? Tena tyaktena bhunjitha. Those who have enjoyed are the ones who have been able to renounce. But how will you enjoy if you have no energy?

Therefore that arrangement of celibacy till twenty-five was not in the service of celibacy; it was in the service of enjoyment. You will be astonished to know this. Your priests explain it to you quite the other way. The aim was only this: that up to twenty-five the youth gathers so much energy that when he enters enjoyment, he experiences the ultimate intensity of it. And whatever is experienced to its uttermost—one becomes free of it, because then nothing of substance is left in it. If the experience is half-and-half, some juice remains—“there is still something more to happen, a little more, a little more!” Perhaps something remains! The mind stays stuck, entangled. If the experience becomes complete—if for twenty-five years someone has truly lived celibately—then even a single experience of intercourse can free him from lust: this is possible. A single experience! Seen, known.

Then the second span was twenty-five years—the householder’s, of enjoyment. It will seem very contrary: twenty-five of celibacy, then enjoyment! But behind it there is a deep science. So it should be. First accumulate; only then can you spend. Only if you have will you be able to give. Twenty-five years of deep enjoyment—without hindrance, without any prohibition, without any repression. The arrangement the Hindus discovered is the most scientific. And it was decided after reflecting on human nature from all sides—it is not one-sided; it is comprehensive, holistic. For twenty-five years, enjoy fully—wealth, status, attachment, greed, sex—taste them all thoroughly. So that by the time twenty-five years bid farewell, when you are nearing fifty, and your sons are about to return from the gurukul—then become a vanaprasthi.

The word vanaprastha is very lovely. It means: your face turns toward the forest. You have not yet gone to the forest, but the preparation to go begins, the arrangements begin. The prelude to departure starts—vanaprastha. Be in the marketplace still, but let your eyes be set on the forest. Let your back now be toward the bazaar. Perhaps you will have to stay a little longer, because the sons will be returning from the gurukul. Their marriages must be arranged, they must be taught work and business, placed in the world. Their days of enjoyment are arriving. When you are nearing seventy-five, the time of vanaprastha is complete. Vanaprastha means: live in the market, but no longer live as belonging to the market.

And after seventy-five—sannyas. That is the fourth and final stage. Everything has been enjoyed, everything seen; there is nothing in life that has not been known. In knowing is liberation. Now, free of care, with a carefree mind, you can go to the forest—or wherever you sit there is forest; wherever you are, there is forest.

So Kamal Maharaj! This is precisely the hour of old age, when the flower of sannyas blossoms with the greatest ease. Do not think that life has gone and only now the art of living has come. Do not think either that the lamp has gone out and now the gathering has become colorful. As yet nothing has been extinguished, nothing is finished. If even a single breath remains, in that single breath one can attain the supreme experience of liberation. For this event happens in a moment. It is not a gradual event that happens step by step—it happens in a single instant. When the urgency is total, when prayer is complete and the thirst intense—then in a single moment the rain descends, the flood arrives.

Your strength still remains
your breath still remains
your task still remains
Do not grow indolent, do not sit silent,
someone is calling you
Still blood runs through every vein
still the acquaintance with knowing is dawning
still not the death-beloved weakness
Do not grow indolent, do not sit silent
someone is calling you.

That is precisely why I have called you. And I have called people of every kind. The journey has to be made from all directions. I have given sannyas to small children as well, but the meaning of their sannyas will be different: it will have the meaning of the first stage—brahmacharya. I have given sannyas to youth, too. The meaning of their sannyas will be the same as the second stage—householdership. I have given sannyas to the mature as well; theirs will mean vanaprastha. I have given sannyas to the elderly; theirs will mean sannyas.

Therefore here you will see sannyasins of many kinds. And because of this people fall into difficulty, into confusion. Because you will see that some young sannyasin is walking with a young woman holding her hand. You will say: what kind of sannyas is this? His age is prepared precisely for this kind of sannyas. Anything else would be coercion. To impose otherwise would be a rape of his nature.

So with me you will find sannyasins of all four kinds. There is the little Siddhartha. Then there are hundreds of youths. Then hundreds of mature persons. And then, Kamal Maharaj, elders like you. But the color of each one’s sannyas will be different. The color of each one’s sannyas will be exactly that of the state of his own consciousness.

Day has declined
the sunlight has grown cool
the sunlight has grown cool
Some color has changed
form has changed
in the feeling
a moving awareness seems to have dissolved
Day has declined the sunlight has grown cool

I look upon the earth
with attention, with reverence
with the flowers and fruits of the art of cultivation
it has become green and gold, with incomparable waves of hue
Day has declined the sunlight has grown cool

Today through the eternal grace
of the pure blue sky’s contact
the earth, golden, champak-bright,
graceful, well-voiced, well-adorned,
colored by the motionless silent,
is giving invitation to the eyes
making each particle blessed
divine beauty has descended upon the earth
a heavenly light has arisen in the pupils
Day has declined the sunlight has grown cool

Into form and into sound
a golden wave has come
into the speed attained—love
into life—a sweet attachment has come
Day has declined the sunlight has grown cool.

Day is declining, Kamal Maharaj! But the sunlight is growing cool. Life’s heat is lessening, evening is nearing. And evening is the hour of prayer. Therefore among the Hindus, sandhya itself came to mean prayer. Evening is the hour of prayer.

Making each particle blessed
divine beauty has descended upon the earth
a heavenly light has arisen in the pupils
Day has declined the sunlight has grown cool

Let the body be unwell, sick, aged—do not worry. These are the ways by which the sunlight grows cool.

You asked, “There is no desire now for heaven or liberation.”

This is exactly what I want, this is precisely my message. Let there be no desire for heaven and no desire for liberation. Heaven is attained only by those who have no desire for heaven. Eligible for liberation are only those who have no longing for liberation. Because as long as there is desire, there is the world. Desire’s other name is the world. What you desired makes no difference. You desired wealth—world. You desired status—world. You desired liberation—world. You desired samadhi, nirvana—world. In desire is the seed of the world. Desire and world are synonyms.

Therefore liberation cannot be desired. When all desire becomes futile and drops, like leaves fall from a tree in autumn—when, in the maturity of a life’s experience, in ripeness, all the leaves of desire fall, in that moment when there is no desire in the mind, samadhi happens. In that moment you are free.

Free from what? Free from desire. Therefore those who are full of the desire for liberation do not know that they are once again arranging to return to the world under a new name. They have only changed the object of desire, not desire itself. What will changing the object do? The inner depth of you must change. Earlier you desired money; now you desire meditation. But the desire is the same, the desirer the same.

This is my message: let there be no desire for heaven and no desire for liberation. And precisely for this reason your mind remains drawn here—that you may come and ripen further in this freedom from desire, and take deeper dips.

This is not a temple. This is not a dead place of pilgrimage. Something living is happening here now. The idol here is not of stone yet. A fresh ray is descending; morning is happening. Therefore your mind remains drawn. You have grown old; it is difficult to come, to travel, to come all the way from distant Rohtak—hindrance. But something is happening here with which you want to be in communion. When this happens within you completely, then you will not need to come here—I myself will come there. Until it has happened completely, you will have to come here. As soon as it happens fully, then whether you stay in Rohtak or anywhere, it makes no difference; there the dance will continue. There the play will go on. Then, for your inner eye, the distances of time and space will dissolve.

But what is happening is auspicious. Steps are being placed in the right direction. Spring’s first flowers are about to appear.

On the neem, new blossoms have come; the air is fragrant
sweet tassels, rippling,
are making mute gestures of honey
in the king of seasons each breath is filling with trust
the air is fragrant

New tender leaves, a new rhythm of movement
a new youth’s new introduction
green-red hues, beautiful, taking waves of laughter
the air is fragrant

The wind, humming with fragrance each moment
its wave restless, the heart restless
in mind and eyes has settled a dear thirst for form
the air is fragrant

Very soon the winds will be filled with the fragrance of spring. The buds have appeared; soon the petals will open. But do not lose alertness; do not lose awareness. Whether the body goes or remains—let awareness not go. This inner light that has begun to arise is still very dim. Pour your entire energy into it so that it becomes a great blaze of fire. Your lamp must burn through to the end. This body is not to be dropped just so. From my side the effort will be total; only you do not be uncooperative. Then even to the last breath… the goal can arrive.

Your strength still remains
your breath still remains
your task still remains
Do not grow indolent, do not sit silent,
someone is calling you
Still blood runs through every vein
still the acquaintance with knowing is dawning
still not the death-beloved weakness
Do not grow indolent, do not sit silent,
someone is calling you.

Ramaswaroop! The mind is very cunning. Even if the divine stood before you, the mind would say: All right—but what’s special about it?
The mind forever makes you waver and run—after the “special”! Why—what is wrong with being ordinary? Why this hankering for the extraordinary? Behind the craving for the extraordinary is the ego. The ego can be satisfied only by the extraordinary, not by the ordinary. And I want you to become ordinary. And to be sated and contented with ordinary life.

What’s special is that earlier there was some desire; now there is none. What’s special is that earlier there was seeking; now there is no seeking. What’s special is that now there is delight in being ordinary. In this world the most extraordinary thing is—the joy of being ordinary.

The Zen monk says: when hungry, eat; when sleepy, sleep. Beyond this, there is no other practice.

Kabir has said: Sadhos, effortless samadhi is best! Do you understand “effortless samadhi”? It means: contentment with the ordinary. But the mind says: do something extraordinary! Wear a peacock-feather crown, let flags fly, let crowds sing your praises, let there be a humming of fame. Do something special! What, you just ate when hungry? And what, you just slept when sleep came?

Then the mind will keep you running—and there is no moment when the mind will allow you to be satisfied. Whatever special thing you do, even before you have finished doing it the mind will say, “Fine—now what’s special?” You see a big house and feel, “That should be mine.” After years of effort, one day it may be yours. But two or four days later the mind will say, “What’s special? There are palaces far grander.” You see a beautiful woman; the mind says, “A wife should be like that.” You chase it. After how many days of effort you will get her—and very soon the mind will say, “Okay… but there are women more beautiful; what’s special?”

One of the mind’s eternal tricks is to devalue everything by calling it ordinary. Beware of this deception.

I am telling you: in the ordinary, the divine is hidden. In your tiniest actions he dwells. Nothing in the world is small, because the world is suffused with the divine. How can anything be small when it is all the play of the vast? Hence it is said: in every particle, only he is. In every moment, only he is. In the tiniest of the tiny, he is. From the atom to the infinite, it is his expansion. The one who feels hunger within you—that too is he; and the one who feels thirst—that too is he. Do not call thirst ordinary—God himself is thirsty; God himself is hungry.

Live in such a way that an extraordinary radiance shines through all your ordinary acts. How will that radiance appear through the ordinary? Do not take the ordinary as ordinary. Offer your whole life to him. And be alert to the mind—it will always say, “What’s special?”

People come to me here every day saying exactly this. A politician used to visit me. He said he couldn’t sleep. He also said, “I have not come to you searching for God. I have no interest in God. Nor do I want to learn meditation—I don’t see any substance in it. Let me speak honestly: I can’t sleep; I’m exhausted. Give me some method so that I can sleep. I want nothing else; if I get sleep, I get everything. If I get sleep, I get life. If I get sleep, I get God.” Those were his words.

I said, “Fine—that’s not difficult. Here we manage the difficult thing: those who are asleep forever, we wake them up. You want to sleep—good, that will happen; no obstacle at all. The real difficulty is the other one: how to awaken the sleeping, how to bring back those lost in dreams! You want to sleep—that can be done.”

I gave him a meditation method. “Start this,” I said, “and in six weeks tell me what has happened.” He came after six weeks and said, “Sleep is coming now—but nothing else has happened.” I asked, “What else did you want? You asked only for sleep. Have you forgotten that you said if sleep came, God would have come?” He had no memory of what he had said the first time; when I reminded him, he remembered. He said, “Yes, it’s true. At that time I was so tormented by insomnia that it felt as if, if I got sleep, I would have attained God. But now that sleep is coming—what’s special? The whole world sleeps!”

Look at the condition of man: what he doesn’t have seems supremely important. What is absent appears so valuable. Once it is obtained, its importance vanishes. The moment it is gained, its value ends.

Bernard Shaw has said: there are two tragedies in the world—one, not getting what you want; and the other, getting what you want. I tell you, the second is the greater tragedy: when you get what you want, it becomes futile.

Fortunate was Majnun that he never got Laila. Had he gotten her, he would have been standing in some court filing for divorce. He would have forgotten all those poetic leaps. Ask those who did get their Laila. As long as it is not attained, everything is beautiful; the moment it is attained, obstacles appear. The moment it is attained, it all turns worthless.

Look from your own experience: whatever you have gained has become trivial—and how meaningful it seemed before you had it! How the mind decorated it with dreams! This is the mind’s fundamental trick: to keep you perpetually dissatisfied.

You say:
“You are the quest of my birth-moment.
In the deepest depths there is a thirst for the death-moment.
The result of that is that I am near you,
On one side, your fragrance is all around—
Yet from within, a pang, each moment,
Says: this too is nothing special;
The whole of life is a thorn.
A call rises—
When, how, will this thorn turn into hope?”

Hope will also come—and yet you will come and say, “All right, the thorn is gone, it has become a hope—but what’s special?” The mind goes on asking this question up to the very last moment of samadhi: What’s special? The mind is mad for the special. Some distinctiveness must be there. Why? Because distinctiveness is the food of the ego. There must be something that nobody else has—then it is special! Something should happen that has never happened to anyone—then it is special! But such a thing will not happen to you either.

Buddhahood has happened to many. Before you, many became Buddhas. Even before those Buddhas, many became Buddhas. It is an eternal chain. What is new under the sun?

Spring comes again and again, and flowers bloom again and again. Each flower must think, “I am blooming for the first time; never has such a flower blossomed.” But centuries have passed; springs have come and flowers have bloomed. Springs come—and Buddhas happen. When you attain Buddhahood, the question will still arise: “What’s special? It happened to Gautam Buddha, to Vardhaman Mahavira, to Prophet Mohammed, to Krishna, to Christ—what’s special?” Ram Swarup! What is there in it? It has happened to many. Let something happen that happens to you alone!

But such a thing cannot be. There is no way for that to happen. Whatever can happen to you has already happened to many. Only then can it happen to you; otherwise it wouldn’t happen to you either.

The special simply does not exist. The whole cosmos is pervaded by the divine. Either say all are extraordinary—the mind won’t agree to that; or say all are ordinary—the mind won’t accept that either. Yet these are the only two right options. Either accept that everything is extraordinary—Zen monks chose this. That is why they drink tea as if they are praying—because tea too is extraordinary. The smallest of acts is tea; what could be smaller? Even that they invested with the dignity of worship.

In Zen monasteries there is a separate tea-temple where people go to drink tea. It is a temple. Shoes are left outside. One bathes before going. One becomes silent before entering. Then inside they sit as one would sit in a mosque or in a temple—with great respect, with great peace. Tea is being prepared. You would be quite surprised and ask, “What’s special going on here?” Ram Swarup, you would say, “What is all this about? Nothing special is happening—tea is being made.” But people sit, listening to the sound of the tea in the samovar. For that sound too is the anahat nad—the unstruck sound. Look a little, understand a little! The sound rising in the kettle, the soft hiss, the bubbling of the water, the tea leaves singing—they sit quietly and listen. For it is his sound, whether it passes through trees, bursts from the bubbles of tea, or flows from a Buddha’s throat. Ten or fifteen people sit in silence; tea is being made. They wait in silence. Then the fragrance of tea begins to spread; the lovely aroma fills their nostrils—and they rejoice. All fragrance is his—whether of the lotus or of tea. And when the tea is poured, it is poured as a priest performs worship. And tea is drunk as one receives prasad. A tiny thing, an ordinary act—given extraordinary glory! That is the art of living. And you reduce even the most extraordinary to the trivial.

There is a famous story by Turgenev. In a village there was a great fool. Every village has them; not one, many. Look for one, you will find a thousand. The whole village mocked him. The poor fool was distressed. Whatever he did, went wrong. A fakir stayed in the village; the fool clutched at his feet. “Give me something,” he pleaded. “How can I be freed from this great foolishness? I am dying of shame. I walk, people laugh; I speak, people laugh. If I don’t speak, they laugh. If I go nowhere, they laugh; if I go, they laugh. I am on the gallows—save me. What can I do so that people don’t laugh, and don’t take me for a fool?”

The fakir looked at him and said, “It’s simple, very simple: whatever people say, contradict it instantly.” The fool asked, “Meaning? Give me an example.”

The fakir said, “If the moon has risen and people say, ‘How beautiful!’ you say, ‘What beautiful? What’s special?’”

Do you understand, Ram Swarup?

“What’s special?” No one can prove what is special. They will be nonplussed. Someone says, “Shakespeare’s writings—how beautiful!” Someone says, “The words of the Gita—how precious!” Someone says, “The Bible—how poetic!” And you just remember one line: “What’s there in it? Words—what is there in words? I see nothing.”

Someone plays the veena and people begin to praise him—say, “What’s the big deal? The man plucks strings; sounds naturally arise from strings. What is there to praise so much? Anyone can do that. What’s in it?”

Just start condemning. Become a critic.

The fakir said, “I’ll stay in this village seven days. After seven days come and tell me what has happened.” He didn’t need to come; the whole village came to tell the fakir, one after another, that the great fool had become a great pundit! He had defeated the whole village. Say anything—and immediately… Someone says, “The rose—how beautiful!” and he replies, “What’s there in it? Flowers have always been blooming. Whether a rose or a weed—what is it? It’s all grass. Why are you knocking your head against grass?”

No one can prove that there is beauty in a flower. How will you prove beauty? It is not a thing to be proved; it is the language of a feeling heart. But if someone, like a cudgel, declares, “What’s there?”

You praise a woman’s beauty; along will come the great fool and say, “What’s in it? If the nose is a bit long, what of it? If the eyes are a bit fish-like, so what? What is this ‘Meenakshi, Meenakshi’ you go on about? And if the complexion is a bit fair—what’s special in that? I suspect it’s anemia. Because of a lack of blood, this pallor appears. Delicacy, tenderness—what nonsense are you spouting? These are fine names for weakness; people hide behind them.”

He silenced the entire village. Wherever the great fool appeared, people stopped talking. They greeted him, seated him respectfully: “Please, be seated.” He became a great critic.

Fools often become critics, because nothing is easier than criticism. Nothing is easier than saying no. To say “God is” is a very difficult thing; to say “God is not” is very easy. To say “God is” requires a brave heart; even a corpse can say “God is not.” No chest is needed to say that. To say “There is beauty” requires a dancing heart; to proclaim “There is no beauty” even a stone can do—no heart required.

This is the mind’s trick: it makes everything non-special. Wake up! Be alert to this, otherwise the mind will befog and mislead you—enough it has misled already. Now begin to discover the special within the non-special. Let the rose be beautiful, but let the flowers of the grass be beautiful too. They are beautiful as well. Let the Kohinoor be beautiful, but let the colored stones by the roadside be beautiful too. They are, in fact; only you lack eyes, only you lack a feeling heart.

Beauty is showering everywhere. Everything is extraordinary—but drop talking about “extraordinary,” and you will begin to see the extraordinary.

Kabir has said: “My rising and sitting are circumambulation.” Rising and sitting become worship. One need not go to Kashi to circle an idol in some temple; nor need one go to the Kaaba. “What I eat and drink is service.” No need now to offer a ceremonial dish to God; what I eat and drink is already his offering. Sadhos, effortless samadhi is best!

Drop this madness for the special, and your whole life will become extraordinary. This will seem paradoxical: let go of the hankering for the extraordinary, and all becomes extraordinary. Keep hankering for the extraordinary, and all becomes ordinary. Because that craving for the extraordinary gives birth within you to a voice of condemnation.

Not just today—they’ve always been sitting on your chest. The fault isn’t the politician’s; the fault lies with those who let someone sit on their chest. If you allow it, someone will climb up—if not A then B, if not B then C.

Man wants to remain a slave; that’s why. He wants a master. He doesn’t want to stand on his own feet, to find his own direction. He wants to follow, to be a follower. He doesn’t want to open his own eyes. He wants to walk holding someone’s hand. Because man is not yet a complete man, politics becomes important. And politics is important also because much animality still remains within man; as long as that animality remains, politics will remain significant. It is because of the animal in man that brute force seems valuable.

What is a politician’s power? Only as long as he holds office does he have power; without office he has none. Look at the “seat” he sits on—what is its structure, its foundation? Beneath that chair, what is the cornerstone? Bayonets, guns, soldiers, bombs. What is the politician’s authority? A stick in his hand—the means to do violence. That is his power. You know he can destroy, he can harm; you fear him, you tremble before him.

The day politics loses its prestige will be a day of great revolution. It will mean that man is no longer an animal, is no longer afraid of brute force; that music has become more important than the bayonet, the sannyasin more important than the soldier, spiritual strength more valuable than animal strength. Only then will politics lose its hold; otherwise, it cannot.

On the surface you see something else—presidential palaces, prime ministers’ chairs. But what stands behind them? The strength of soldiers, armies, drilling simpletons; ranks upon ranks of bayonets, mountains of bombs. And then, whoever has more bombs has more power.

Don’t say, “Why is it so today?” It has always been so. When there were kings, kings were powerful. Now kings are gone; prime ministers are powerful. The case is the same, the game is the same—only the costumes change.

Understand this clearly: the higher you want to go in politics, the smaller you must become. Only the small can reach there, the petty can reach there. The large-hearted cannot. Only those can reach who pursue ambition with inhuman obsessiveness.

In the world of religion, movement belongs to the one who is deeper, more generous, more loving. In the world of politics, the movement is exactly the reverse.

A flood has come, a flood!
A flood has come, a flood!
All that was ponderous and weighty,
heavy, iron-solid,
ton upon ton,
has settled to the bottom.
And bobbing on the surface
are empty kerosene tins,
Dalda cans,
drums borne on poles,
winnowing trays and sieves,
wooden odds and ends and junk!
A flood has come, a flood!
A flood has come, a flood!

If you want to reach Delhi, remember: be like empty kerosene tins—you can reach; like Dalda cans—you can reach; like pole-borne drums—you can reach; like winnowing trays and sieves—you can reach; like wooden junk—you can reach. A flood has come, a flood!

In politics, it is the petty who rise, the troublemaker who rises, the violent who rises. So if in your parliaments shoes fly, chairs are hurled, people chase each other waving microphones, and there is a flurry of fists, don’t be surprised—that is exactly how it must be. If it didn’t happen, I would wonder: what’s going on? No punches for days, no brawls in Parliament, nobody pouncing on anyone, no off-the-record abuses—what on earth has happened? Why so much silence?

What is happening is exactly what should happen.

The naked one dances; the thief applauds—
brother, the naked one dances.
Hollow, thick-skinned kettledrums thunder,
pounded with both hands gripping pestles,
false propagandists tuck in newspapers as their loincloths.
The naked one dances; the thief applauds—
brother, the naked one dances.
The worthy, the capable, the true leaders sit inside in fear;
the thugs, the louts, the loafers outside, moustaches twirled,
leap and prance and caper about.
The naked one dances; the thief applauds—
brother, the naked one dances.

Look at your parliament and it becomes obvious what politics is. Even a madhouse doesn’t make it so clear. There is some order even among the insane; in parliament, not even that.

To reach office you must make a staircase out of people; you will have to place your feet on their shoulders. And the shoulder you climb upon—you must push him down before you go further. Because the one you used to climb up, someone else could also use to climb up. The staircase must be knocked down.

Toppling Charan Singh is straight political logic—it’s arithmetic. The man Morarji climbed upon should not be left standing; someone else might climb the same way. In politics the number two man is always in danger, because number one fears number two—the only one he fears. Therefore politicians never tolerate people of equal caliber near them. They want lesser men, with a sufficient gap between them and the leader; if those lesser men start to walk that distance, it should take them years. But number two is dangerous—one step and he can topple the one who hoisted him up.

Politics has its own logic—entirely jungle logic. And since man is still a jungle being, politics has influence. Don’t imagine you have no politics within you. As long as ambition remains, politics remains—whether or not you stand in an election. As long as you want to be bigger than someone, to be special, politics is there. What else is politics?

There are very few truly non-political people in the world. The non-political person is the one who says: “As I am, I am content—I neither want to be ahead of anyone nor behind anyone. Someone may be ahead or behind; it’s none of my concern. I am as I am—content. Wherever I am—I am content. Even if I am the last, I am content. My ecstasy doesn’t change.” As long as there is competition, there is politics.

So there are many kinds of politics. If you are in the marketplace of money and want more wealth than others, you are engaged in the politics of wealth—not of office, but of riches. Wherever your thinking is in the language of competition—“I should be ahead, the other behind; I should be special, the other non-special; I powerful, the other powerless”—you are thinking politically. If even in the matter of liberation you think, “May my place be ahead of others,” you are thinking politics.

When Jesus was taking leave, on the last night—see how political man is!—do you know what his disciples asked? Their Master was going to the cross, and what were the disciples worried about? They asked, “Tell us this much: in the kingdom of heaven, you will sit next to God—but which of us will sit next to you?” If Jesus’s eyes filled with tears, it would not be surprising. That is politics. All his life he taught: do not compare yourself with others; do not weigh and measure. Comparison is meaningless, because comparison gives birth to politics. You are you, I am I. You are as you are, I am as I am. Neither are you ahead of me, nor am I ahead of you. No one is ahead or behind; we are not standing in a queue. Each person is unique, incomparable. But politics plays subtle games.

A Jain monk came to see me. He said, “You take the name of Mahavira and also of Buddha—who is greater?” This is politics. You not only drown yourself in politics; you drown your Mahaviras and Buddhas too: “Which of the two is greater?” A Jain thinker wrote a book on Mahavira and Buddha and brought it to present to me. He said, “You will certainly like it,” because I hold that all religions converge on one truth, with different expressions. He was a Gandhian, chanting “Allah-Ishwar tere naam,” and so on. I took the book and was startled by the title: “Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.” I asked, “Why not ‘Bhagwan’ for both—or ‘Mahatma’ for both? Why this slight difference?” He was a bit embarrassed: “What is there to hide from you? Mahavira is Bhagwan—he has reached the ultimate state. Buddha is still reaching, has not yet arrived—therefore he is Mahatma, a great soul, but still with a small lack.” Even one who talks of the harmony of all religions makes such a fine distinction; his inner trickery keeps working.

Gandhi called the Gita “Mother,” but did not call the Quran “Father.” And if he had, many Hindus would have been offended: “What is this—Gita as mother and Quran as father? That would make the Quran the husband, and the husband is God—then great troubles arise.” So the Quran was not called father. Silence was kept. And from the Quran, Gandhi selected only those verses that matched the Gita—as if they were its translation; the passages that go against the Gita he left aside.

Our minds keep comparing; we cannot refrain from it. And comparison is the root formula of politics.

If you understand me, remember this: you are just you. No one like you has ever been, and no one will ever be. You are unique. You cannot be compared to anyone, nor can anyone else be compared to you. Existence has given each a uniqueness. That inner state frees you from politics. Politics is the race to prove—who is big, who is small? Politics is the extension of the hidden violence within man. And because you are weak, eager deep down to be a slave, you grab anyone’s hand. Whoever shouts the loudest slogan seems to you to be right.

I have heard: a young lawyer, finishing his apprenticeship with a great lawyer, asked for a last piece of advice. The master lawyer said, “Remember three things my own master told me:
1) When you find you stand on the side of truth, speak calmly and cheerfully; let your face be radiant. Rely on the witnesses.
2) When you are in doubt—uncertain whether you stand with truth or falsehood—don’t rely on witnesses alone; rely on the books and your study. Rely on argument. Read out page after page of citations. Dazzle the court with knowledge.
3) And if you are certain you stand on the side of falsehood, then do this: speak as loudly as you can and pound the table as hard as you can. Then neither witnesses nor law have any value—only noise has value. People instinctively think that the one who shouts must be right; surely only truth speaks so loudly, falsehood is afraid.”
The fact is the opposite! Whoever shouts becomes your leader. Whoever gives you false assurances becomes your leader. Whoever titillates your desires and shows you dreamlands becomes your leader.

Once in a village of the blind
a deaf man arrived.
The deaf man sang the blind
a very sweet song,
with musical notes
he slew all their sorrows,
huts were instantly turned into palaces,
the blind were told
how great they could be,
a dance of words
went on for a long time—
who could see the dance?
the anklets of slogans
jingled in perfect rhythm.
In short,
the blind
were shown a whole dream-garden.
The deaf man made
all the blind men’s wishes
seem incomparable.
At last, delighted,
the blind placed a victory garland
around the deaf man’s neck.
Then all the blind, overnight,
began to itch to become Kubera, god of wealth.
The deaf man poured such nectar
into their ears that,
slowly, all the blind
sat where he seated them,
walked where he made them walk.
The deaf man drove the blind
just as he wished:
he uprooted one from here,
sat another down there;
he stitched someone’s lips shut,
he fitted a loudspeaker into someone’s mouth;
he placed a crown
on the head of a useless man,
and if he wished he made
the blind kings into beggars.
The deaf man showed great feats;
then the blind, against their own habit,
grew nervous:
“Deaf one! Tell us—
what became of your promises?”
The blind men’s slogans
slowly shook the sky,
but in the end
they got nothing at all.
While the blind uproar
was shaking the earth,
the deaf remained unperturbed—
the noise could not reach his ears.

This is our condition. You are blind. Anyone gives you assurances. How many promises of revolution! How many “revolutions” have taken place in human life—and revolution never happens. Just now another revolution has happened—nothing changes; conditions perhaps become worse.

I have heard: a vizier defrauded his emperor, siphoning off millions. When the emperor learned of it, he summoned him. The emperor had great love and trust for that man. He said, “Listen, I trusted you so much and you betrayed me?” The vizier said, “Master! How can anyone betray unless someone trusts? Only if someone trusts can one betray.” The logic was sharp. Whom can you cheat except the trusting? Even in that difficult moment, the emperor laughed at the vizier’s wit. He said, “All right, but I can no longer tolerate you. You did serve me, though you betrayed me; I dismiss you. I will appoint a new vizier.”
The vizier said, “Master! Before you dismiss me, hear one thing. I have already built my mansion; my coffers are full of gold coins; I have deposited funds in banks in far-off lands. A new vizier will come—and start all over again. I have done what there was to do.”
The emperor saw the point. The vizier said, “Let me remain now; what had to happen has happened. The next man will begin from the beginning; he too will build his mansion; he too will go and deposit money in Switzerland. Why raise a needless commotion?”

One revolution comes and people make promises. But those whom you seat in power have to do exactly what those before them did—if they are to remain in power; if they are to return to power. Again money will be deposited in Swiss banks. Again the web of exploitation will run. Again the trickery, the deals, the conspiracies. In two or four years you will forget what became of the revolution—the revolution never came.

Revolution never comes. Politics can never bring revolution. There is only one revolution—and it happens in consciousness, in the individual; it never happens in the crowd. The Russian revolution failed. The Tsar was never as dangerous as Stalin proved to be. All revolutions have failed, because finally revolution puts power in the politician’s hands. And naturally, the very techniques he used to abolish the previous regime, he will now use to ensure he himself cannot be abolished. So he arranges things more carefully, more systematically. The way the Tsar was eliminated—Stalin arranged it so no one could eliminate him that way.

Today you would be surprised to know that if there is any country that is revolution-proof, it is Russia. There, revolution cannot happen. Such a revolution!—that it produced a revolution-proof country. There, from the very beginning no voice is allowed to rise; the neck is pressed; the first note is erased; before the seeds of rebellion can spread, they are burned to ash.

Man has made many revolutions; nothing has come of it—only that man keeps swaying on the waves of hope.

Wake up! No good fortune is going to dawn in your life through politics. Good fortune will arise only from the revolution of consciousness within you. When the one sleeping inside awakens, showers of fulfillment can fall into your life; some flowers of bliss can bloom. Don’t waste time. Just now another revolution has finished; in six months a third will come—and you will get busy again.

Man is strangely blind! He takes no time to go from one revolution to the next. Man’s memory is short; in two or three years he forgets—and starts making revolution again, getting trapped by the same agitators. They come back with new faces.

You ask: “Why does politics have so much prestige?”
Because of you. Because you have no prestige within yourself. You have no respect for yourself; that’s why you go about honoring two-penny politicians. You have no self-dignity; that’s why you bow before chairs. The “saga of the chair” is yours. Wherever you see a chair, you instantly prostrate yourself. You are poor in spirit, pitiable; therefore politics has prestige.

It is a sick condition that all the newspapers are filled with politics. It shows that apart from diseases we have no interest in anything. Kill someone—you’ll be in the papers. Water a plant, grow a beautiful flower—no one will ever know; no newspaper will carry the news. Steal, be dishonest—and you’ll be in the papers. Live quietly, peacefully, joyfully; sit and sometimes meditate, pray, worship—no one in the world will know. What a strange state! There is no news of the auspicious here—only of the inauspicious. And if only the inauspicious is broadcast, and the inauspicious spreads, what is surprising?

Drop this morbid disease! Forget the uproars of politics. Come home. And don’t be afraid that without you politics won’t run—there are plenty to run it. Look for one, a thousand will appear. They will keep it running. You step aside. Step out of the crowd. Build a temple within. Light the lamp of worship within. A revolution can happen within you.

There is only one revolution in the world: when someone attains buddhahood—that alone is revolution. And if you attain buddhahood, those who come to you will receive light into their lives as well. From lamp to lamp, let the light be lit.

If God wanted to prove Himself, He would have done so long ago. God chooses to remain unproven—and there is a reason for it.

If God were provable, as a stone is, He would become superfluous.

Karl Marx, the father of communism, said that until God can be caught in a test tube in the laboratory, he would not believe. But just think: if God were caught in a laboratory test tube and the scientist dissected Him and performed an autopsy, then God would indeed be proven—but after the autopsy! He would be dead.

God is supreme Life; therefore He cannot be proven. Yes, if you wish, you can unite yourself with that supreme life. The mind says, “Let it be proven first; then we will have faith.” But do you understand what faith means? Faith means the courage to seek that which is not proven. That is exactly what faith is.

People come and say, “If God is proven, we are ready to have faith.” But if He is proven, there is no need for faith. Do you have faith in the sun? If it is raining now, do you have faith in the rain? Trees are standing—do you have faith in them? When something is proven, there is no reason for faith. Faith disappears. Therefore God remains unproven, so that faith can be born. For faith it is necessary that God remain unproven, invisible, imperceptible. He is found only by those who dare to seek.

God is not a theorem of logic. God is an experience of love. Neither can love be proven, nor can God be proven. The person who decides, “Before I love, I will have it proven that love exists—what is love? Let it be tested and verified in the laboratory; then I will love”—one thing is certain: that person will never be able to love. Love must be entered into—in the dark, groping, searching. It is within that uncertainty that love’s prelude is formed; in that darkness the womb of love is created.

Remember, roots grow in darkness—in the deep darkness of the earth. Children too grow in the darkness of the mother’s womb. So it is with faith—in darkness. Bring too much light and the roots die. Uproot a tree and show its roots to the sun—the tree will die. Take the child out of the mother’s womb and put it in the sunlight—the child will die. Yes, one day, when the child has grown and become capable of facing the struggle of the world, he will come out of the womb. But before he comes out, he will remain in the womb for nine months.

Faith is the name of keeping God in the womb. Nine months. And how long those nine months will last depends on you.

Sethia, it depends on you. If you wish, you can take lifetimes; if you wish, not even a moment—today itself will do. Why postpone till tomorrow? What certainty is there about tomorrow? Even the nine months are up to you. One can be fulfilled in a single instant; and one may not be fulfilled in endless births. It all depends on your urgency, intensity, depth, surrender, and resolve.

You ask: “Can you prove that God exists?”
Oh Lord!

May this land see the flowering
of the art of poetry,
of sculpture, of music, of painting—
the sixty-four arts.
May even the strange art flourish—
the art of becoming affluent, renowned,
in one sense
accomplished.
But, O God!
In this land, in this crooked age,
may the art of proving never arise;
for then it will be easy to prove
day as night, night as day,
an elephant an ant,
a whistle a bugle,
a spear a pin,
a griddle a platter,
a funeral procession a wedding party,
and a sparrow a Garuda or a vulture.
Kabir would be harried to no end!
So, O God!
Do whatever else You will—
but in this twisted land and faulty times
do not let the art of proving arise.

What does it mean to prove? To offer some arguments? Arguments have been offered—every argument that could be offered has already been offered. Nothing has been proved by them. For five thousand years arguments for God’s existence have been put forth, and still nothing has been proved. Some say—this whole series is of the same sort—that just as seeing a pot makes it certain there must be a potter, so seeing this vast universe there must be a maker. Such are the arguments. But what do they resolve? The atheist asks: then who made him? Granted that the pot was made by a potter—who made the potter?

There your theism gets threadbare. There your logic becomes worth two pennies. There the theist has to say: God was made by no one. Then the atheist says, if God can be without a maker, why can’t the universe be without a maker? What need then of God? Why carry it so far? If anything can be unmade and making is not necessary for something to be, then the world itself can be unmade—why bring God in between? And if you say that God was made by a bigger God, the question will only go on multiplying. There will be no end. One God will be made by another, the second by a third, the third by a fourth—no end at all. In the end, exhausted, you will have to say: now stop; this One was made by no one. This is the last.

But there the question returns again. Those who have offered such arguments were not knowers. Had they been knowers, they would not have given such childish reasons that even a child can break, that any atheist can demolish.

So I want to tell you: the theists didn’t give arguments at all. Those who did were hidden atheists. They too were doubtful. They were hunting for arguments to persuade themselves—and in trying to persuade themselves they started offering arguments to others. It often happens: in order to convince himself, a person starts arguing with others. Seeing agreement in others’ eyes, he too begins to feel assured.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was walking down a street at dusk when some rowdies began to harass him. One tugged at his achkan, one pulled the drawstring of his churidar, another slipped a hand into his pocket. Night, silence—who would get into a fracas? He said, “Do you know where I’m going?” They asked, “Where?” Nasruddin said, “There’s a banquet tonight at the royal palace; the whole town is invited—didn’t you know?” “What! We didn’t hear a thing,” they said—and at once they ran toward the palace. When ten or fifteen of them had run off toward the palace, after a while the Mulla too started running after them—muttering, “Who knows, maybe it’s true.” Though he had concocted the lie—only to get rid of them so they’d go to the palace and he could go home.

But when fifteen people believe something, you too start suspecting it might be true! One had better go and see. Though you yourself made it up. It often happens: the rumor you started comes back to you, and you begin to believe it.

The theists have not given proofs. To a theist one thing becomes perfectly clear: God is beyond logic. Therefore I cannot give you a proof. There is no argument for Him. God is. And when I say God is, I am not saying someone is standing somewhere with a bow and arrows, or playing a flute. When I say God is, I am saying: the entire expanse of what is has been given a single name—God. These falling drops of water, the greenness of the trees, the voices of the birds, these people, these rivers, these mountains, these moons and stars! The collective name of this whole vastness is God. God is not a person to be grabbed and stood before you.

A woman died in New York and left a will bequeathing several thousand dollars to God. Now there was a great difficulty in the court. By law, on behalf of God the court had to send notice: please appear; this woman has left this money and property in your name, kindly take charge. When the court issued the notice, it had to be delivered. They searched all over New York. Finally, the process server submitted a written report: God was not found in New York.

If you go looking for such a God, will He be found anywhere? Not in that way.

I have heard: a small boy wrote a letter to God. If a little child does it, it’s fine; but when elders start writing, it becomes laughable. The boy wrote: I have no books, no slate; if twenty-five rupees don’t arrive by the first, I won’t be able to pay my fees; father is ill, there is no grain at home; please send twenty-five rupees by money order quickly. Naturally, the letter reached the place where lost letters go, that have no addressee. The clerks opened it and gave it to the postmaster: what shall we do with this letter? Where should it be sent? The postmaster felt pity. Poor child! He said, “Come on, let’s collect something and send him twenty-five rupees.” They collected—only twenty came in. He said, “Send the twenty, whatever there is.” A money order of twenty rupees reached the boy. On the third day came his letter: Dear God, many thanks! But next time when you send money, send it directly. This postmaster ate five rupees for his fees—he took his commission. Don’t do that again.

People’s notions of God are just like this. When you raise your hands toward the sky, don’t remain filled with the childish notion that someone up there is listening. God is not there—He is here, now. He is all around. He alone is. Nothing exists apart from Him. How to prove this? There are trees; the winds are blowing; rain is falling; birds are singing; people are sitting. All this is God. How to prove this? You are God; the questioner is God. How to prove this? This is already self-evident. Whoever tries to prove it is unintelligent.

What has nature not given us?
Yet we have taken nothing from it.
We remained blind—
we did not drink even a ray of the sun;
we never drew a full breath into our lungs;
we sat in stale, closed rooms,
assuming that we are all in all—
stiffened from root to branch.
Do not be stiff. Relax a little, and God will be self-evident. The more you stiffen, the more God becomes unproven. The more fluid and simple you become, the more God becomes self-evident.

And remember, your believing or not believing makes no difference to God; it makes a difference to you.

Nietzsche declared a hundred years ago that God is dead. God did not die—but after that declaration Nietzsche certainly went mad. He died in a madhouse. And his declaration slowly became the declaration of this century. This entire century is going mad. It may die mad. God did not die because of his declaration—man died.

By our disbelief
God does not die.
If we do not fear Him, He does not begin to fear us;
rather, we die in that very moment when
our trust is lost
in being illuminated by a greater Light.
Instead of being born anew each day,
we become each day more desolate—
about ourselves, about our own,
about the dreams we had
consciously cherished.

God is a light greater than you. The sense that something greater than you surrounds you—that perception is called God. The world does not end with you—this awareness is God. There are journeys beyond you; there are destinations beyond; there are skies beyond. The felt sense of this is God. God is not a person—He is a possibility. You can be more than you are; what you are now is almost nothing.

By our disbelief
God does not die,
if we do not fear Him, He does not begin to fear us;
rather, we die in that very moment when
our trust is lost
in being illuminated by a greater Light.
Let light kindle light! When you trust something greater than yourself, in that very trust you begin to grow. When your trust is in the vast, through that very trust you begin to expand, to become boundless.

No; I will not be able to prove God. Because God is not an object to be proven; not a person to be dragged before you. God is the infinite possibility of your being. Only by becoming will you know. Only by attaining will you know. The way of attaining can be shown. The path to being God can be indicated.

God is not other than you, that someday you will have His darshan, meet and converse with Him. The day you awaken into your total possibility, the day your total potential becomes actual, you will find you are God. But this does not mean you will find that only you are God and no one else is. In that moment you will find that all is God. There is nothing other than God.

Peace is within—first cherish it;
without it nothing outside will be formed.
If, without tending the within, you go striking out
to the four curious corners of the world,
you will gain only weariness.
Peace is within—understand it, cherish it.

I can give you the way to be quiet within, to be empty. In that emptiness is the proof; in that emptiness is the direct encounter. In that emptiness the tones of experience begin to rise.

I cannot prove God; but I can give you the doorway from which you yourself will know beyond doubt that God is. You too will not be able to prove it to anyone else. This is not a matter of proving or disproving. Nothing can be said conclusively either for or against God. But those who set out to seek God, they find Him. And those who find Him are the only ones who find themselves—because the inner self and God are two names for the same reality.

The soul itself is the Supreme Soul.

Enough for today.