Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #18

Ageh Bharati! Tears are the first news of prayer. If tears are coming, then prayer must also be on its way.
Do not mistake these tears for crocodile tears; otherwise that very notion will become a blockage. Crocodile tears are when you force them, when they are brought on deliberately, with an effort and a motive—for show. When tears come of themselves, they are not crocodile tears. Tears that come on their own are the first glimpse of the prayer that is arriving. If tears have come, prayer will also be coming.
These tears are auspicious.
May the lifespan of these tears be divinely long.
Since they have come, a little solace has come even in separation.
Whenever, on this earth, the eyes fill with tears of love or joy, or with tears of remembrance of the Divine, even if only for a moment, you cease to be a dweller of earth; for a moment you enter another realm. Although it is only for a moment—yet is a moment so little? A moment too belongs to the eternal. Even if a bird flutters only a little, still it has risen a little into the sky. Having risen so far, it will rise further. But do not disparage these tears. Whatever we disparage gets blocked. Welcome them.

Seated idly in the gathering last night, I suddenly wept.
Just some forgotten thing was recalled—and I wept.

As you listen to me, some long-forgotten memory must be surfacing. Perhaps the veil of forgetfulness lies over it for lifetimes—but in our very origin we come from the Divine. That is our abode, our source. The memory lies somewhere; when I call to you, that memory must be struck.
Weep—weep to your heart’s content! Do not be miserly in this. The more the tears flow, the more blessed; the eyes will be cleansed—the outer eyes and the inner eyes as well. Tears cleanse both, if they arise from within. And they do arise from within—because they are not brought by you. Listening to me, they come. Hearing me, you are carried by some current; some wave begins to stir. My voice must be waking the sleeping voice within you. Let light kindle light!
In this dark world these tears carry great hope.

In the settlement of despair, a small hope of union
wanders about, frightened, like a stranger.

This is a township of darkness and desolation. There is nothing to be found outside here. If but one thing sprouts in the heart—the hope of union, the longing to meet the Divine—know that life has become meaningful. Laughing in the marketplace is futile; weeping in the temple is meaningful. To appear cheerful with the futile is futile; to be downcast, even tearful, with the meaningful is still meaningful.
Tears are a great wealth. If they fall upon the right path, they are seeds. From these very seeds flowers will bloom. The final outcome of these tears are those lotuses of a thousand petals of which the fakirs have forever spoken—these are their seeds.
Weeping seems hard, an obstacle. And then, in our minds, tears have become inseparably linked with sorrow. In this world even our laughter is tied to sorrow; what to say of tears? We have known only sorrow here. We wept only when we were hurt—thus we remain unfamiliar with another visage of tears: there are also tears of joy. Tears are not necessarily linked with pain; they are necessarily linked with any state of feeling that becomes so dense within you that you cannot contain it.
As rainclouds gather and pour, spill and overflow, so when the vessel within you is very full—whether full of pain, or joy, or love, or prayer—tears will brim over. Tears bring the news that something very deep has filled you—so much that you can no longer hold it.
Listening to me, some long-lost memory awakens. A dream lying inside you begins to take form. A small glimpse of the formless begins to appear. If what I am saying to you were mere words, this could not happen. With the words, I am there too.

What you said that day—
as if those words
were not words:
they were trees,
they were dwellings,
they were persons.
Sometimes beneath them,
sometimes within them,
sometimes clasping them,
I live.
And even if I turn away
from them for a while,
their shade
comes and touches me
morning and evening.
What you said that day—
as if those were not words,
they were trees, dwellings, persons.

What I am saying to you is not mere saying. I am not telling a tale; I am speaking the anguish of your life. And I am indicating the way to go beyond the anguish of your life. And beyond your life’s anguish there is a treasure; I am reminding you of it.
My words are an invocation, a call—to take you on the journey to the Vast, if you consent to move.
If tears have begun to come, it means your feet are getting ready to walk; your heart is consenting to go. To enter the light, one must pass through darkness. To attain supreme bliss, it is necessary to go through many pains. Those pains refine.

We, vassals of hope, cast the dice,
throwing breaths instead of seeds!
Had the blazing summer not closed in so tight,
how would the golden laburnum blossom?
Had we not passed through darkness,
how would we find the light!

So sometimes, listening to me, the mind will be filled with a deep sadness. For until you know your possibilities, why would you be sad? When the seed comes to know, “I can be a tree, and I have not become one,” sadness will surround it, a sense of failure will arise, dejection will come, a burning will arise in the life-breath—“Have I missed? Am I missing?” A deep churning will occur. The very life will tremble. But through this very pain it is possible you will rise and set out.
The goal seems far; thus it will frighten you—will you reach or not? From seed to flower the journey is long; and yet not long, for the flower lies already within the seed. Both far and near: walk, and it is very near; do not walk, and it is very far. If the seed breaks open in the soil, the flower is not far; but if the seed remains a seed, how far it is!
Hence the Upanishads rightly say: that Divine is nearer than the near, and farther than the far. Near to those who will accept the pain of walking. And the more you walk, the more your eyes will fill with tears: first the tears of separation, then—with a glimpse of Him—the tears of union.
The devotee’s path is paved with tears. The color of the tears changes, their manner changes, their meaning changes—but the tears keep flowing! Until the Divine met Mira, she wept; and when He met her, she wept. She wept because He was not attained—in separation. And when He was attained, she wept because He had been attained—in joy. Besides tears, what else do we have with which to thank Him?

Midnight
owls peering from hollows
Midnight
the wail of laboring skeletons
Midnight
ghouls drinking blood
Midnight
ghosts all flush and thriving!
Midnight
here, a cremation ground
Midnight
dogs bark “self-knowledge”!
Midnight
one thing remains to be said
Midnight
dawn is not far!

Just keep one thing in mind: for now it is midnight. But to think only this—that it is still midnight—is a mistake.

One thing remains to be said
Midnight
dawn is not far!

And as the night grows deeper and darker, the morning draws nearer. In the womb of night the sun ripens. Outside the womb of night, dawn is born.
So weep sometimes in separation, weep in melancholy. And sometimes weep in this joy—that at least the thread of possibility has begun to appear. Though the distant coming morning is not yet visible anywhere, at least it has begun to glimmer in your dreams. Somewhere in your depths a trust has begun to arise—that morning will come, that morning has come, that morning keeps coming. And the deeper and darker the night grows, the closer the morning approaches. Just before morning, the night becomes deepest.
So weep! Do not be anxious about tears of love.

Speak softly by Mir’s pillow.
Just now, weeping and weeping, he has fallen asleep.

Lovers have kept on weeping; devotees have kept on weeping. But even by mistake, do not think these tears are crocodile tears. And how did this thought arise in your mind? Because you say, “Then why does a prayer not arise such that only the prayer remains and I do not?” That very thing is being born. This is the pain of labor.
And you ask, “Why does the world still entice just as much and call me toward itself?”
As you begin to awaken, you will find the world entices even more strongly. The world pulls harder. It makes a last attempt; the world does not leave you quietly. The relationship is old, the bond is deep. Such bonds do not break just by saying “goodbye” and walking off. For lifetimes you have been bound to the world, and the world bound to you. The chains have grown accustomed to you, and you to them. The chains will cling; the world will pull with all its might. And the more it senses you are going far, the more it will exert its full strength.
In a seeker’s life there come those moments when, as samadhi draws near, the world begins to call with great force. Before samadhi happens, before prayer is born, the world throws in its full strength. All the desires flare up. It is the last throw; desires do not wish to lose. The mind too exerts all its strength to pull you back: “Come back—where are you going?” A great conflict will arise. But as soon as the conflict rises, understand that the moment is drawing near—that is why the mind is employing so many stratagems. If it were not near, the mind would not do so much.
So I tell you: the world pulling you, enticing you, seeming to entice you even more—these are all good signs. See the auspicious aspect of these signs. Do not denounce your tears. Welcome them, honor them. Embrace them in a spirit of joy. Revel with them, sway with them. Soon prayer will come.
If even a single flower has bloomed in spring, know that the whole spring is near.

Anand Maitreya! Science is the body, poetry is the mind, religion is the soul. If in a human life body, mind, and soul can move together, why can’t science, poetry, and religion move together in a human life? The truth is, they should move together. If they don’t, some mistake is happening. And then man will be incomplete.

What does it mean when a person knows only science as everything? It means he has not peered beyond the body. He has taken the body to be the end. He has put a full stop at the body. In such a person’s life there will be no poetry, no music, no literature.

You remember Bhartrihari’s famous saying, don’t you? The one whose life has no literature, no poetry, no art is not truly human; understand him to be like an animal without a tail. The mind has not yet been born within him. And where the mind is not born, how can we call him human? It is through mind that man becomes man. Mind is what makes him human; otherwise what is the difference between animal and man?

An animal is only body. An animal has no clue of anything beyond its body. The human being who does not experience himself beyond the body needs no separate classification from animals. He may be in human form, but the dignity of being human is not yet his.

I have heard: In a school—a Christian school—a teacher was teaching children the Bible. He explained how God created man and woman, how the world was made. A small boy stood up. He was the son of a scientist. He said, “But my father says man is born from monkeys.” The priest replied, “I am speaking of the entire human race, not of your family. About your family your father would know better.”

Another child, offended by this—his father was a mathematician—stood up and said, “Forgive me, but what difference does it make? If our forefathers were monkeys, they were monkeys—what difference does it make?” The teacher said, “It may not matter to you, but if your forefathers were monkeys, it would matter a great deal to your grandmothers. Think of your grandmother!”

All the glory of man is hidden in one fact: that in him there are doors which animals do not have; in him there are flights that animals cannot take. Animals end with the body; man begins with the body, he does not end there. Up to the body, man too is an animal.

So the person who adopts only the scientific outlook—humanity has not yet been born in him; he is human in name only.

Mind is born through poetry, art, music, and a sense of beauty. But the person who ends at the mind—he is human, yes, but he could also have been divine; he missed. There is yet another flight—the last, the ultimate, beyond which there is nothing—where a person experiences himself as soul; where he experiences “Aham Brahmasmi,” “I am Brahman!” That is beyond mind. That is religion.

Religion is one shore, science is one shore; poetry or art is the bridge in between. Whoever wishes to move toward religion, to journey from body to soul, will pass through the station of art. A stage will come that belongs to art. If such a stage does not come, know that you are on the wrong path. Therefore, in the exact sense, the person who is truly religious will, alongside being religious, become enraptured with rasa. He will have a sense of beauty. He cannot be dry and arid. If he is dry and arid, know that somehow he has slipped past the mind. A slight lack will remain in his soul. His samadhi will be without flowers; there will be no nada; there will be emptiness, voidness—there will be no dance of the Whole. His samadhi will not be a festival of bliss. Perhaps his samadhi can be described only thus—dukkha-nirodha—that now he will not be miserable. Now the small things of life will not make him suffer.

But is not being miserable enough? Not being miserable is like growing a thick skin so that nothing is felt. Any person who builds a stony wall around himself will succeed in the same way: if someone dies, it does not matter to him; if someone lives, it does not matter; success or failure, fame or defamation—he sits hidden inside his iron armor. Such a man has not truly evolved. He wanted to be clever. He wanted to skip a station.

True samadhi sings and dances. True samadhi is celebrative. And around true samadhi there is no iron wall. True samadhi is very delicate—delicate like a flower. And until there is such delicacy, there is no compassion.

Hence you will find that those who slip past the world of art—among such sadhus and saints no compassion, no love shines forth. They seem like corpses—dead bodies—living corpses! I am not in favor of that.

I am in favor of the all-round development of man. I want man to be whole. Let him have all the joys of the body. Let him have all the joys of the mind. Let him have all the joys of the soul. Man is a Triveni. Let him become a sacred confluence. Let these three—Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati—merge within him. Let there be a Sangam.

You ask: Is it possible—“religion, poetry, and science together?”

If body, mind, and soul are together possible. This entire existence is a sum of these three. That is why we call the divine the Trimurti. It is the sum of three. It has three faces. You too have three faces. Do not stop after recognizing only one face, otherwise you will remain incomplete. Where there is incompleteness, there is sadness. Where there is wholeness, there is celebration. Where there is wholeness, there is attainment. And where there is attainment, there is contentment.

Science has great influence in the world. And the result has been this: religion has been badly damaged and corrupted; it has become a matter of dreams; it got linked with fantasies. But under the influence of science, to the extent man came, to that extent poetry began to die, poetry began to wither, art began to die. Because if there is no soul, if there is no other shore, what will become of the bridge? When there is this shore and that shore, then the bridge is meaningful. Poetry is the bridge that joins the two shores—joins the gross and the subtle, the seen and the unseen, the manifest and the unmanifest.

It is no accident that in the speech of all the realized ones there is a mark, a quality of poetry. The Upanishads are great songs—so is the Koran. And the Gita is, by its very name, a song. And the Vedic ricas. And the sayings of Jesus! Though Jesus did not speak in verse, among all who have spoken on the earth, the most poetic utterances are Jesus’s. The spontaneous, innocent poetry in his words is found in no one else’s. In Buddha’s words there may not be much poetry, but in Buddha’s rising, sitting, walking—even in the blinking of his eyelids—there is poetry; his whole life is poetry.

If we examine and recognize the lives of the mystics, you will always find: some glimpse of poetry is present there in one way or another. To go to the other shore one has to cross the bridge. And whoever crosses that bridge gets colored. Within him Holi has been celebrated, and Diwali too. Colors have been scattered within; lamps have been lit.

With the rebirth of religion, the rebirth of poetry is inevitable. If that far shore exists, the bridge will have to be repaired again, built again. Though poetry is not sufficient in itself, nor complete in itself; yet even so, it has more depth than science. The scientist looks at the world. With a very gross eye. He looks at the world carrying a scale. Only very gross things come within the grasp of a scale; the important things are lost.

For example, there is ecstasy in a person. You weigh him and ecstasy has no weight. The person’s weight will show on the scale. Today the person is ecstatic—still the weight will be the same; tomorrow he is unhappy—still the weight will be the same. So the scale will say ecstasy and sorrow do not exist, because they have no weight. Whether there is poetry in a person’s life or not, the weight will be the same. The scale will not distinguish between a man and a monkey. The scale knows only one thing: weight.

Science has the scale; it is very gross. With it, some things simply slip away. You can weigh a flower, but how will you weigh the beauty of a flower? To see that beauty a sensitive heart is needed. It is not weighed on a scale; it is weighed on the heart. It is not tested in test tubes; it is tested in the life-breath. There is no way to recognize it from the outside; you have to enter into the flower—then recognition happens.

The scientist circles outside the flower; the poet enters within the flower—into its fragrance, into its beauty. But there is something deeper than fragrance and beauty; the poet cannot reach there; the rishi reaches there. Beyond beauty and fragrance lies the soul of the flower—unseen, unmanifest! There the seer moves.

Life’s supreme mysteries open to the rishi, but even the poet’s hands receive some leavings. The poet’s hands receive a few sutras. The poet is very close to the rishi; the scientist is very far. In the scientist’s hands nothing of the rishi’s world ever comes; upon the poet a slight shadow falls.

And to express, to suggest religion, no process is better than poetry. Because poetry gives liquidity to words; it steals their solidity; it blunts their points; it gives them roundness. And poetry frees words from the rigid circles of meanings; it makes them a little humble; it removes the arrogance of the dictionary. It arranges words in such a way that through words a small glimpse of the wordless begins to arrive.

That poetry is supreme into which as much emptiness descends. The finest poetry stands right on the steps of religion. The greatest poet—like Rabindranath—stands at the temple door: just a little more, one step more, and he will enter the temple; the deity of the temple will be his.

When religion left the world, poetry went with it. This century has not produced great poets; it has produced great scientists, not great poets. If religion returns, its shadow, poetry, will return too.

Look back a little: whatever beauty has happened in the world has all happened as the shadow of religion. Whether the temples of Khajuraho, or those of Puri, or of Konark; the caves of Ajanta, or of Ellora; the temple of Borobudur, or the churches of Rome—these all rose in the shadow of religion. Buddhist monks carved the caves of Ajanta and Ellora. They inscribed beauty in stone. They made flowers bloom in stone! Look at the churches that rose in the West—their gestures: they are the Earth’s hands raised toward the sky! Look at their spires—reaching out to touch the distant moon and stars! They are man’s yearning to unite with the heavens! Look at the mosques—of Iran, of Egypt, of Arabia—they are experiments in casting prayers into architecture! All this is poetry. Look at the Taj Mahal! All this is poetry—whether it happened out of love or out of prayer. But when prayer is lost, love also begins to be lost. And when both prayer and love are lost, the soil of poetry ends; its foundation collapses.

If religion returns, poetry will return by itself. Then Taj Mahals will be built again, the caves of Ajanta and Ellora will be created again, the lovely temples of Khajuraho will rise again. Man will again be overwhelmed with feeling. He will again see the hidden beauty. Right now he sits in the laboratory, holding a scale, heating test tubes. Right now he makes machines—ugly, ungainly, misshapen! Not that those machines are useless, but they are not so valuable that man should end in them. Man should keep rising above them; let them become steps for man—then it is auspicious.

So I am not anti-science; I am for science in its wholeness. But beyond science there is also a realm of poetry; I am for that too. Nor do I stop there. Beyond that too there is a realm of religion; I am for that as well. This triad must be completed in man; only then is man complete.

Brother of mine! Drink, then you will know. Drown, then you will recognize.
When a temple is alive it is a tavern. When taverns die, only dead temples remain. Where today stands the Sikhs’ Golden Temple, there must once have been a tavern—when Nanak sang and Mardana plucked his sitar. When Mardana accompanied Nanak’s song, the temple was alive, the tavern was flowing, the nectar ran. Those who came must have forgotten themselves, been lost, been effaced. That which effaces you—only that is the wine.
You must have heard: the ancient scriptures call Brahma-knowledge “madhu-vidya,” the lore of honey. Buddha has said: the knowledge of the Buddhas—taste it—and it is sweet, sweet, sweet: sweet at the beginning, sweet in the middle, sweet at the end. Nothing but honey.
The world is very bitter. From afar it promises honey, but when you go near you find nothing but acridness. Here your hands get burned and wounds form on the heart. There is no other real attainment here. There is another realm where the honey-essence flows.
For now, this is a tavern. And so long as it is a tavern, drink. Don’t get stuck in the idea of why I call it a tavern—find out why I do. Don’t come here and remain a distant onlooker; sit a while. Come closer. Even if you only listen—if you truly listen to talk of wine, intoxication begins to descend.
“The cupbearer is in a strange bind—
if there is no wine, then let the talk of wine remain.”
If there is no wine, at least the talk of wine. You know nothing of the Divine? Then let’s talk of him, remember him. Sit by those who know him; listen to a little of their talk. Let their vibration touch you. It is lying dormant in you too—if their wave touches you, it will awaken. Seeing one veena played, perhaps you will remember the veena lying within you—and it will begin to sing. That is the meaning of satsang, of the company of the saint.
“I had asked, ‘Where is the goal of goals?’
Khizr showed me the road to the tavern.”
In Sufi lore, Khizr is the idea of an invisible prophet who wanders the earth; to those in need he shows the way. His name is Khizr. For centuries he has roamed—seeking those who seek God. Wherever he hears that someone seeks the Beloved, Khizr arrives—present to support and to serve. It is a sweet symbol. Its simple meaning is: for a seeker of God, the whole existence lends a hand—seen and unseen; from this world and the other world help arrives. Let the seeker not feel alone—God himself walks with the God-seeker; only the one going against him is alone. Those going toward him have his hand in their hand.
“I had asked, ‘Where is the goal of goals?’
Where is the final destination, the destination of all destinations?
Khizr showed me the road to the tavern.
Khizr said: go where the drinkers gather, where those who drink assemble, where talk of the Beloved resounds; where the wine of his Name is poured—go there. Seek some satsang, some tavern.
That is why I call it a tavern. Khizr is sending people here. Many have told me—they say, ‘Khizr sent us.’
“O shaikh, where is the rapture of life in dry talk?
The joy that belongs to drinking is only found by drinking.”
There is no way to understand by doctrines and scriptures.
“O shaikh, where is the rapture of life in dry talk?
That supreme bliss of life cannot be in dry theories and scriptures. You can go on collecting dry sticks—it won’t do. Go sit beneath some green, living tree—where leaves still sprout, where flowers still bloom, where fruit still ripens—sit in its shade.
It is only by drinking that you get the joy of drinking.
So drink—and don’t be afraid! Yes, you fear that if you drink you might lose your “sense.” This sense will be lost—but what you now call sense is no sense at all. It will be lost. And what you have so far called insensibility—that alone is true sense.
Those who are “senseless” in God have come to their senses; those filled with the world’s sense are senseless. Is the world’s sense any sense? You go on hoarding petty things—do you call that sense? You call such a man “sensible”? Someone amasses wealth, and people say he is very shrewd, very sensible! When death comes he will know he wasted his life; he had the chance to do something, but did not; he found nothing meaningful. And the one who seeks the meaningful—people call him mad.
This crowd is of madmen. Here, the truly sensible are thought mad; and the mad are thought sensible. Be a little alert—and understand these words rightly.
Nanak’s father became quite troubled and wanted to put Nanak to some trade—because he kept going to satsang. What father wants his son to do nothing but satsang! The father explained, “Do something useful!” And Nanak said, “I am speaking only of what is useful. What are you saying!” Each meant something different by “useful.” The father said, “Come to your senses.” Nanak replied, “That is what I am trying to do. I go to satsang, I press the feet of sadhus, so that I may come to my senses.”
The father beat his head—“This is not sense. Earn something!” Nanak said, “That is exactly what I am doing.” When things got too strained and communication broke down, the father said, “Stop this talk. Here is some money. A fair is about to be held—buy blankets. Sell them at the fair. But mind you, don’t make a loss; you must make a profit. Show at least some profit.”
The father was surprised—Nanak set off in high spirits: “All right, I’ll show a profit.” After five or seven days he came back—delighted, ecstatic! No blankets, no money. “What happened? Where are the blankets? Where is the money? How much profit?” Nanak touched his father’s feet and said, “Much profit. I was going toward the fair with the blankets when I met a group of sadhus on the way. It was cold; they were shivering. I distributed the blankets among them. Merit is the only profit. Charity is the only profit. Great joy arose—seeing the fakirs cozy in the blankets, warming themselves, my soul was thrilled. Had you seen it, you would have rejoiced.”
What the father went through, he alone knows. Seeing no other way—trade won’t be done by him—the father got him a job. The employer, a commandant with thousands of soldiers, gave him the simplest task so no trouble would arise: to distribute grain daily to the soldiers. For a few days everything went well; then one day, as was bound to happen, the “trouble” came—and good it did; otherwise the world would have missed Nanak. That day it didn’t feel good to father, village, or employer; but today we know it was good.
He was weighing out grain: eleven, twelve—and when he reached thirteen, in Punjabi “terah” (thirteen) and “tera” (yours) are the same. In Hindi they differ a bit, but in Punjabi there is no difference. The tune caught—“Yours!” He remembered the Divine. All is Yours! And he went on weighing. Fourteen never came—only “Yours… Yours…” he kept saying, weighing and giving. The tune caught; noon became evening; he measured out thousands of measures—all at thirteen. Ecstatic, tears flowing, swaying, saying “Yours!” and distributing grain. Whoever came took away. No worry remained about who was a soldier, who should receive and who should not. Villagers too began to come.
People said, “Nanak is distributing—anyone who comes, he says, ‘Yours.’” By evening the master heard and had him brought in. With difficulty he was stopped—he was in the tune of “Yours”—he would have gone on pouring all night. When the master asked, “What madness is this?” Nanak laughed: “‘Yours’—the remembrance arose. All is His, Master. What is ours? He is the giver; He is the taker. Today it came back to me. How did I miss it so many times before! ‘Thirteen’ came so often—how did ‘Yours’ not occur to me? Now I can’t believe how I missed it!”
Such a man—you will call him senseless, intoxicated! This is the intoxication drunk and poured here. That is why it is a tavern. We remind you of “Yours”—that is why it is a tavern.
“Today the cupbearer made me utterly, timelessly drunk,
casting his special glances into my goblet.”
Come close so I can look into you and you can look into me—so that you may gain a little recognition of what has happened. Then you too will say, “It’s a tavern.” Though you too will not be able to answer. Nor am I answering. Here answers are not really given; your question is made a pretext—and the pouring begins.
“Have we seen in an overflowing goblet?
This is the tavern’s secret—we will not broadcast it.”
We won’t tell. It is a secret. It cannot be told; there is no way to say it. But it can be poured. We will pour. Whoever has the courage to drink—let them drink.
But some people think they will drink in heaven—why here! They say, “In heaven rivers of wine flow—we will drink there. Here, walk carefully.”
Others even say, “Walk carefully here so that you may drink there.” Strange talk! Learn to stagger a little—else you will be in great difficulty there.
“O ascetic, when for the first time you drink in Paradise you will stagger.
If you yearn for the rapture of Kawthar, then drink a little here first.”
So if you long for heaven—practice a little here.
God pours abundantly. But first, drink a little at the feet of the true ones. Acquire a taste. Let a little habit be formed.
Those who come from outside, stand far off and look—they don’t understand what is happening here. So they carry wrong reports outside. Every day the papers print something or other—right or wrong—about this tavern. They too are helpless. Seen from outside, only that can happen.
“Their fancy soars to the Throne above, and their heads rest at the cupbearer’s feet—
know that the drinkers here sit absorbed in a very different tune.”
Those who sit here and drink—why they sit, what they do—you won’t know from outside.
“Their fancy is on the Empyrean,
and their heads are at the cupbearer’s feet.”
“Their purpose is of another order; in a different rhythm the drinkers sit here.”
The onlooker will not understand what these drinkers are doing. Now the difficulty: those who come and go from the outside—people believe their reports. And if someone drinks here, becomes colored in this color—then people won’t believe him. They say, “He is one of them—he has drowned among the mad.”
It is a funny thing: the one worth believing—the one who has seen from within what is happening, who knows the inner chamber—no one trusts him. “You are finished; you are one of them—why should we believe you!”
If I send a sannyasin to explain to someone, he says, “You are a sannyasin; you are biased.” They believe the non-sannyasin. But what is the worth of a non-sannyasin’s word? He didn’t come near, didn’t look eye to eye. From the outside he saw: some people dancing, some shouting, some singing, some playing instruments, some sitting silently—who knows what is happening! It doesn’t look to him like anything “useful” is being done. And he is right—what he calls “useful” is not what is being done here. Here something else is happening—what we call “useful.” His language and ours do not match; he gets into a bind; he takes some meaning utterly astray.
In meditation camps I was forced, very reluctantly, to forbid people from removing their clothes. A moment comes when clothes fall away. A moment of innocent ecstasy arrives when even clothing feels like a burden, and the heart longs deeply to drop all veils—let there be nothing between God and oneself. Let these winds play with this body; let the sun’s rays dance upon it; let nothing veil the sky and this body. Such moments of ecstasy do come! But the outsider who looks in thinks, “Ah! They are teaching nudity here.” These are the same people who hurled stones at Mahavira because he was naked—though now they worship him. And I tell you: these very people will worship; but centuries later. Their worship is false, dead. When a tavern dies and the streams of nectar dry, only memories remain—then they begin to worship. As long as the streams flow, as long as a living truth is present, they run far from it. They fear truth—for truth is fiery. Come close and you will burn, be reduced to ashes. But from that very ash a new life is born.
Under compulsion I had to forbid disrobing—not because in such a moment it is wrong to be naked; to stop someone then is inhuman, indecorous—but because spectators gather; they bring cameras; they will photograph someone—and that picture becomes “important.”
A German magazine, Stern, printed two or three nude photographs. Such is people’s curiosity! Those pictures then appeared in papers all over the world. There is hardly a language they didn’t reach—Dutch, Italian, French, Spanish—everywhere. A year has passed since that magazine printed them, and still they keep appearing in new languages. No one asks in what inner moment these people were nude, in what state this bareness happened. No one cares for the moment.
There are such moments—when the mind becomes utterly innocent like a child, when childhood returns—just that innocence. But the outsider will think either this man has gone mad or is drunk—something is wrong. And people are only too ready to believe him.
This is a tavern—in just this sense: here we speak another language; we are cultivating another style of life.
“Sometimes we drink for the very love of living.
A little staggering is needed in order to find one’s balance.”
Stagger a little. The world will call it staggering; the knowers will call it finding balance. Drink a little and be intoxicated. The world will call you mad; the knowers will say, “Madness has left.” But knowers are few. Their voice is not the majority. Courage is needed—because the crowd, the majority, are the unknowing. Be ready to bear their laughter.
People have become so dishonest, so calculating, so skilled in arithmetic that they have lost the spontaneity of life—their clarity has been lost.
Have you noticed how people do everything by thinking and calculating? Because they do, the spontaneity of doing is destroyed; the simplicity of doing is lost. In everything they are playing moves; they have planned out every detail in advance; everyone has become a trickster.
Watch a chess player—he thinks three or four moves ahead: if I move thus, the other will move thus. Great chess players think five moves ahead—if I do this, he’ll do that; then I’ll do this, he’ll do that—they calculate five moves, then move. But the joy goes out of the move; it becomes anxiety and tension. Chess players often go mad.
I’ve even heard of an Egyptian emperor—a great chess player—who went mad. Many treatments were tried; none worked. Then a fakir said, “No treatment will work. He went mad through chess; through clever moves he went mad. His mind is entangled in moves—further and further moves—his consciousness is overburdened. There is only one remedy. Medicines and advice won’t work. If some chess player agrees to play with him for a full year, he will be cured.”
It was an emperor’s case—no one was willing. Who would play chess with a madman? He babbled nonsense, made commotion, sometimes overturned the board. Who would play! But the fee offered was large; one player agreed. The fakir’s word proved true: after a year the emperor was completely cured—but the player went mad.
The world is full of chess players. Each has set up his own chessboard—of money, of position, of prestige—this, that, something else.
I tell you: drop these games. These games have made your life hell. You’ve gone mad. There is something else to be attained in life—no chess of moves leads there; tricksters fail there; there one arrives by simplicity.
“O moralist, don’t stop me from drinking at dawn—
for to bow in prostration I must bring a little truth into my heart.”
The drinker says to the preacher: O preacher! Do not stop me from drinking in the morning.
“O moralist, don’t stop me from drinking at dawn—
for to bow in prostration, I must first bring a little sincerity into my heart!”
To prostrate, to pray, to offer namaz—one must bring a little truthfulness! Only then can the prostration be real. Let a little truth arise; let a little of my dishonesty drop; let a little of my trickery fall away. Do not stop me from drinking.
Here too a wine is poured—not pressed from grapes, but distilled from souls. A wine not found in the marketplace—found only in temples—living temples—and only there.
I call it a tavern knowingly. Madhushala is a Sufi symbol. It means: the place where God is being drunk and poured.

Satya Niranjan! There is no reason for me to feel that way. The blind is blind. If a blind man behaves like a blind man, what is there to be astonished about? And the deaf is deaf. If a deaf man does not hear, no matter how you call and call—what is there to be surprised about? If he hears, that is a surprise. When someone hears, I am astonished. When someone sees, I am astonished. Then a miracle happens. When no one sees and I go on showing and they do not see, the matter is simple and straight. Where is his fault? The fault is mine.

When you try to show something to the blind, the mistake is yours. If the blind cannot see, why be angry? Where was the expectation that a blind man must see? It has been shown to me—that is my compulsion: what I have seen will not let me rest; it cries, “Show it!” It says, “Give it!” Call to a hundred—perhaps one will hear. Show to a thousand—perhaps one will see. Even that is much. Even that is reward enough.

Let the mind flare like a flame in a halo of gold;
though the body be singed and singed, let it sway, drunk with bliss.
Let not the sorrow of the tenderness that sobs in every darkness be belittled;
let this ancient longing to thin the moonless night never grow old.

And when light awakens within you, do not sit holding it back.
Let this ancient longing to thin the moonless night never grow old.
Keep this yearning alive within you. Keep this compassion alive. When your clouds are full, rain. Do not think whether the earth will drink or not. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the rain falls on mountains, sometimes on stony, gravelly ground, sometimes in deserts. Sometimes on barren land, and once in a while on fertile soil. But that is enough.

Jesus has said: it is like a man who scatters seed. Some falls on the road—it does not sprout. Some falls along the roadside—if it sprouts, cattle graze it down. Some falls on the ridge—if it sprouts and cattle cannot graze it, people’s coming and going tramples it out. But no one stops sowing for that reason. Some seed also falls on the field’s good soil. Throw a thousand seeds—let one bear fruit.

And know this: God does not expect more than that. That is why he places millions of seeds in a single tree—so that at least one or two might fall and succeed. Then one tree will turn green. Why does God put millions of seeds in one tree? No arithmetic is needed. If you made a five-year plan, you would think: “What am I doing? This is extravagance. Why put a billion seeds in one tree?” Put a few. But millions are placed, and only then do one or two germinate. And what arrangements are made so the seed can reach the earth!

Have you seen the flowers of the silk-cotton tree? Do you know why there is cotton in them? It is to carry the seed far away. The silk-cotton is a great tree. If the seeds fall right beneath it, they cannot sprout there; and if they do, the sapling cannot grow. The seed must be carried far. Do not think that cotton is there to stuff your pillows; what has it to do with your pillow? It is there to carry the seed. It is the seed’s wing. That light cotton lifts the heavy seed and carries it with itself. On a gust of wind it goes far—miles away—to where there is no big tree. But who knows where the wind will drop it? Therefore not one or two, but millions of seeds are set.

Do you know how many living cells a man releases in one act of intercourse? Their number is in the millions. Scientists have calculated that an average man, filled with ordinary sexual desire, will have intercourse at least four thousand times in his life. In each act millions of sperm are released; that is, each act could have produced millions of children. Four thousand times! Scientists say a single man is enough to populate the whole earth; one man could father billions. And yet he will beget ten or twelve—if there is no family planning. If there is, then two or three, that’s all. God makes such huge arrangements for two or three children.

If God does not expect more than this, how could I? I go on speaking. I go on calling. Someone or other will hear. Some have already heard. Therefore my trust grows that more will hear. In some eyes a faint light has begun to show. So my trust grows that soon light will be seen in others’ eyes as well. Some seeds have begun to sprout. But do not think there is any benevolence in this. There is an intrinsic law at work. When a lamp burns, light spreads. When a flower blossoms, fragrance flies. When clouds gather, there is rain.

Compassion and mercy and tenderness
are not the sort of things
we can hold in our fists
or stuff in our pockets
and throw about on people.
They are, in truth, rain-clouds,
which grow heavy by their own nature,
and in need they rain even more—
only in their own nature
or their own need.
They do not count where,
or how much by them was watered,
how much was filled by them,
how much was washed away, how many endured them;
how many they brought to welfare.
Or say they are the streams of Ganga, or of Narmada,
flowing on.
Whosoever has the sense to go to them,
or to bring them to his fields,
will go to their banks
and ask.
Hence it has been said, perhaps:
whoever asks, receives.

Is it not enough already that a blind man comes to one who has eyes, asking, seeking? Whether he will see or not—that lies in the darkness of the future—but is it not enough that the aspiration arises: “Let me see as well.” And the deaf wants to hear; within him too is the longing to enter the soundless sound. Whether he will enter or not—there are a thousand obstacles—but the longing is auspicious.

You have come to me here—because of that very longing. That longing brought you from far away. A thousand obstacles, a thousand hindrances—you crossed them and came. Is that not enough? I am delighted. I am rejoicing. People are eager, they are searching, they are groping. When so many grope, something is bound to happen. When so many search, something is bound to take place. Then how could I not give? Even if you do not come, I will still have to give.

Perhaps you know, or perhaps you don’t—when Mahavira spoke the first time, there was no one to listen. There were trees. In the scene, there were trees. The scriptures must have felt a difficulty: “What will people say? They will call Mahavira mad—he spoke, and there was no one to listen!” At least they should have checked whether anyone was there to hear! But scriptures are written by clever men; they added cleverness: they said invisible gods sat beneath the trees and listened. I doubt it; why would gods come to listen! This must have been added by the compilers. Still, I understand their compulsion: if you say Mahavira spoke and there was no one to hear, what answer will you give? That Mahavira was mad? Whether gods came or not is not my concern; one thing is clear: when a lamp is lit, light spreads, whether or not there is anyone to see it. For me this story symbolizes that when the flower blossomed within Mahavira, fragrance spread, whether or not there were nostrils near to breathe it—what difference does it make?

Even in solitude a flower blooms; in a far-off forest, when a flower blooms, still the fragrance spreads. It is not that only when it blooms in your garden does it release its perfume. It is an inevitability. It is an inseparable part of truth: whenever truth is born, along with it a calling, an invitation arises. Along with it, by itself, the song of truth begins. And never is it so that there are no seekers of truth upon the earth. Earth is never so barren. And so the seekers set out. They have set out; they are coming.

Satya Niranjan, I understand your thought as well.
You say: “Every day you shower nectar, and this world returns you poison.”

Each gives what he has, does he not? One who has songs, gives songs; one who has abuses, gives abuses. Do not be angry with the world for this—have compassion. Understand only this much: the poor fellows have nothing else; what else can they do? What I have, I give; what they have, they give.

There is a Jain story. A Jain monk was sitting in meditation by the river. A scorpion fell into the water. The monk quickly stretched out his hand, lifted the scorpion out and placed it on the bank so it would not drown. In the process the scorpion stung him. The monk had gone to save the scorpion—but what else could the poor scorpion do? A scorpion is a scorpion! He has a sting. He knows the art of stinging. And every hand that ever touched him or came near has come to harm him; no hand has ever come to save him. He has no experience of that. Nor had his ancestors. For millions of years the conditioning has been: whenever a hand comes, it comes to strike. Hands of monks are not so easy to meet! Monks are rare; and if there are a thousand, one or two are true monks. So if the scorpion stung, he did right in his way. The monk began to laugh.

And you must have noticed: insects are obstinate, proud. Throw an ant aside and it will come back toward you again. Throw it again, it returns again. A stubbornness arises: “We will show you as well! What do you think?” Life is very stubborn. However small the ray of life, it is stubborn.

The monk placed the scorpion safely on the bank; it fell into the water again—as if deliberately. The monk picked it up again—it stung again. The third time it fell into the water and the monk moved to lift it, a fisherman nearby said, “Are you mad? Have you lost your senses? What are you doing? The scorpion keeps stinging your hand again and again. Let it die. What’s the point of saving it? Better it dies. And can’t you see—it has stung you three times already!”

The monk said, “I am doing my work; it is doing its work. If the scorpion is not giving up, why should I? If the scorpion is stubborn, I too am stubborn. The scorpion says he will die by drowning; he is prepared for self-destruction. I say I will save him. And he is a scorpion—if he does not sting, what else can he do? He will not shower flowers. Now let us see who gives up first. I shall keep lifting him as long as I have consciousness. We shall see: will his poison be exhausted first, or my nectar?”

So, Satya Niranjan, what the world returns to me only makes the world an object of compassion. If they have poison, they return poison. If they are scorpions, they sting. If they are snakes, they flare their hoods.

A fakir came to a village. People there were strongly opposed to him. In anger they hung a garland of shoes around his neck. The fakir burst out laughing. He looked at the shoes carefully, cherished the garland, held it to his chest. The villagers said, “What are you doing? These are shoes!” The fakir said, “My shoes had worn out. And it seems my prayer has been heard. Only last night I asked God for shoes. I did not think he would give me so many. I was hoping for two. He rarely listens to my prayers. I wasn’t even sure he would hear—but in the morning, so many shoes! O Lord! Your great grace! As for you people—know that I am glad you brought what you had! Some villages are such that people bring nothing—not even shoes. They seem to have nothing at all. When I go to a gardeners’ village, they bring flowers. From this garland of shoes it is obvious this is a cobblers’ village. Brothers the cobblers! Your great kindness! Each gives what he has!”

If someone returns poison—let him. Returning poison again and again, someday he will come to his senses; someday the thought will arise. Abusing again and again, someday awareness will come; for a moment he will pause.

And remember one more thing: those who abuse and fling poison—this much is certain: they have a relationship with me. They think of me, they brood about me. A connection has been made. Enmity too is a bond—just as friendship is. One remembers the friend, one remembers the enemy. If they have taken me as their enemy, they have made a little room for me in their heart. From there the work will begin. That little space is enough: give me a foothold, and slowly—if the toe finds a hold, the whole hand will gain a hold.

And those who are filled with hatred can, at any moment, be filled with love—because hatred and love are two faces of the same coin. In truth, they are angry precisely because they fear that if they are not angry, they may agree with me. So let me repeat: you are angry only with one with whom you fear you might agree. In your fear you grow angry. You begin to protect yourself.

They are not hurling abuse at me; they are building a wall of abuses around themselves for protection—so that the attraction drawing them toward me may be dampened by their abuse. But abuse does not dampen attraction. It is like trying to quench fire with ghee. The fire will only grow. Whoever has abused me has fallen into my snare.

I was in Ahmedabad. A friend came to take sannyas. When I initiate someone, I say, “Look into my eyes.” I said it to him again and again, but he kept looking down. I said, “At least once look into my eyes.” He said, “I will not.” I said, “You are a new sannyasin! What is the matter?”

He said, “I feel ashamed. I feel embarrassed.”

I said, “Then tell the whole story. What is behind this?”

He said, “Have you already found out?”

I said, “Tell the whole story. It is written on your face.”

Then he raised his eyes. He said, “The truth is this—”

In those days there was a case against me in the Ahmedabad court. Someone had filed that I was an enemy of religion and harming religion. This gentleman was fired with zeal: “Religion is being harmed!” He came to my meeting with a knife, to throw it and kill me. But the crowd was thick and he could not get close enough to throw it. He thought, “Since I have come anyway, I might as well sit and listen.” He listened—and then was filled with remorse: “If this is harm to religion, then what would be defense of religion?” The next day he came for sannyas. He said, “That is why I cannot lift my eyes. Only yesterday I came with a knife to kill you. How can I look into your eyes?”

I said, “Raise them without fear. Your connection with me must be old, not new. Otherwise, who goes to kill someone just on hearsay, staking his life? My life would have gone—that is one thing. But you staked your own life—this is no small matter! You would have been caught, entangled. You wanted to enter into so much trouble for a man—for you too it was a question of life and death. The courage you showed to stir up such an upheaval clearly shows the bond is old. And hatred soon turns into love. The real difficulty is with those whose hatred is lukewarm.”

Lukewarm love leads nowhere; lukewarm hatred leads nowhere. Either love is needed—burning, blazing, at a hundred degrees—or hatred—burning, blazing, at a hundred degrees. In both cases, some revolution happens.

So, Satya Niranjan, do not worry about them. If their hatred is strong, today or tomorrow they will come. They have begun the journey—only they have taken the longer route. But the earth is round. Walk opposite to me if you like, but keep walking, and today or tomorrow you will reach me.

I have heard: a man was running along the road. He asked someone sitting by the roadside, “How far is Delhi?” The man said, “In the direction you are going, if you keep going, one day you will reach. But it is a circuit of several thousand miles. If you turn back, it is not far; you left Delhi behind only five miles ago. As you wish—you will reach Delhi from either side. Just keep going straight, in a line with your nose; walking and walking, Delhi will come—but you will circle the whole earth.”

All movement is circular. One who walks in hatred can arrive at love; and one who walks in love can arrive at hatred. Friend can become enemy, enemy can become friend. Life is a great circle.

So do not worry much. If they pour poison, today or tomorrow, pouring and pouring, their poison will be used up. Even the scorpion’s gland has a limit to its venom. But the nectar I give you is inexhaustible. The very mark of nectar is that it is infinite, boundless. Poison is limited. In a battle between poison and nectar, nectar cannot be defeated. Poison may rage and froth, but one day it must quiet down. Therefore the wise have said: satyam eva jayate—truth alone triumphs. However long it takes, truth prevails.

We cast our pain into songs,
we turn the burning into instruments.
Applaud us, O grief of the world!
Even wounded, we breathe out flowers.

I have poured every sorrow into joy;
each of my ways is unique.
Those calamities by which people die—
those very calamities have nourished me.

Mark this: it is the experience of all sages—“We cast our pain into songs.” When pain comes, from the energy of that pain we make songs.

We cast our pain into songs,
we turn the burning into instruments.
We make even sorrow into a veena;
we turn ruins into palaces.

We turn the burning into instruments.
Applaud us, O grief-stricken world!
Taking wounds, we still breathe out flowers.

There are a few people on earth who, when they are wounded, return flowers. You throw embers at them and your embers are extinguished within them and return as cool blossoms. One in whom such a happening occurs—that one has known, that one has attained: you throw abuse, and within him it is melted into song.

I have poured every sorrow into joy;
each of my ways is unique.
Those calamities by which people die—
those very calamities have nourished me.

George Gurdjieff, a very extraordinary knower of the West, used to say something important: that Jesus being crucified—that is the outer side of the story. Jesus himself arranged for the crucifixion. He wove an entirely new tale in Jesus’ name. It seems mythical, but the pointer is deep. He said Judas, Jesus’ dearest disciple, did not betray him; he only obeyed Jesus’ order. Jesus’ command was: have me arrested; let me be crucified—because if I am crucified, what I have said will become eternal.

Gurdjieff’s story may seem imaginary, but the hint is profound. This much is true: people would have forgotten Jesus if there had been no crucifixion. It is the cross that engraved Jesus deep into memory—he became a part of people’s very life. The cross gave him eternity.

Had Socrates not been made to drink poison, people would have forgotten Socrates.

So do not worry.

Those calamities by which people die—
those very calamities have nourished me.

Our experience so far is this: the stones hurled at saints become their footprints. Those very stones become treasures for the future. Because of those stones, the indelible imprint of those saints remains upon people’s lives.

So I will be abused; stones will be thrown as well. And you, who have agreed to walk with me, must agree to all this too—and with joy, with gratitude!

My work is rebellion; my name is youth.
My slogan is: revolution, revolution, revolution!

Revolution is my call. I call rebellion religion. For me, revolt is sadhana.

Prem Chaitanya Bharati! Your difficulty, in my view, lies here. I am answering your first question—though since you came here you must have asked at least fifty. I had not answered them for a reason. I was waiting for you to take sannyas; then I would answer your questions.

From all your questions a few things are evident. One: you are deeply influenced by Jainism, hence the insistence on practice. Now you have fallen into my hands. Here there is no talk of practice at all. In my reckoning, awareness is enough, understanding is enough. Listen to me, understand me; do not even entertain the idea that it has to be put into character. If a thing is truly understood, it will descend into character on its own. One day you will suddenly find that practice is happening; it is not something you have to do.

But the shadow, the imprint of Jainism is upon you. There, everything has to be brought into practice. And besides, there is hardly any awareness; the processes of meditation have been lost; only conduct remains—hollow! Do this, do this, do this. So your mind goes on in the same groove: that you have listened...

Jain monks tell people, “Look, what we have said—don’t forget it! Don’t let it go in one ear and out the other.”

And I tell you the very opposite: whatever I say to you, please forget it. That which is worthy of being remembered will remember itself; even if you try to forget it, you will not be able to. And what gets forgotten was meant to be forgotten. It was of no use; it had not yet become part of your understanding. There is no examination to give. This is not some school where you cram what is said so that you can later regurgitate it onto the answer sheet and pass. Life is not such a cheap affair.

So I say: just listen, understand, drink it in! Absolutely forget it; there is no need to remember. Otherwise some people bring a notebook and keep taking notes. Your notebook is telling me that nothing is really reaching your understanding. If it is reaching your understanding, what will you do with a notebook? It has already reached. And when something is truly understood, perhaps its words are forgotten, but its essence is not. And if even the essence keeps getting forgotten, then I will still say: come closer, listen more carefully, and dive in with awareness!

But don’t raise the question of practice at all. I am not on the side of character; I am on the side of awareness. Awareness happens within; character is on the outside. When the inner changes, the outer changes by itself. When the inner being is transformed, conduct changes on its own, like a shadow. But you have been taught the reverse. You have been sitting with Jain monks, coming and going among them.

It’s your choice. But you will fall into conflict. Because what I am saying is something altogether different. It is exactly what Mahavira said. And what the Jain monks are saying is as opposed to me as it is to Mahavira. Your choice—bow at whosesoever feet you wish—but then you will be in a tangle. Because I am saying: awareness, meditation; and they are saying: conduct, character. I say: neither vows nor fasting. This does not mean I am against fasting; I am against it as a vow.

You smoke; the Jain monk says, take a vow that from now on you will not smoke. I say that will be a forcible repression. You will drop smoking and start chewing paan. The mouth wants to move; it will move somewhere. And if the Jain monk also makes you stop chewing paan, then you will start babbling. The mouth will move—and that babble is even more dangerous. At least when you smoked, you took the smoke out and in—no such great harm. You might live a year less. Anyway, what great benefit is there in your living? If you go a little earlier, some space will be freed. Now you will live a year longer and chew people’s brains.

Scientists say that cigarettes, paan, chewing gum—these are all symptoms of a person inclined to babble. He wants to chatter, but finds no one to chatter to—what to do? If he moves his mouth for no reason, people will say, “What are you doing? Are you mad?” So he puts chewing gum in his mouth—a ready excuse: “I’m chewing gum, I’m chewing paan, I’m chewing tobacco.” Now no one can say anything.

I do not tell you to take vows. I tell you: let it come to your understanding what stupidity you are doing—taking smoke in, sending smoke out! Is this some kind of pranayama of smoke? If you must do pranayama, pure air is fine—what is this smoke for? What is its essence, its purpose? Better do a little vipassana! Watch the breath going out and in; savor it. You will be amazed how much juice flows just by watching the breath—why would you then even think of a cigarette? No vow will be needed; the cigarette will drop.

Nor am I opposed to fasting. But let fasting happen—out of such ecstasy that food is not even remembered! So lost in meditation that food is forgotten. This happens here. Just four or six days ago a sannyasin said, “At night it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten today—the whole day a kind of blissful intoxication was upon me.” That is fasting! It comes out of ecstasy.

There is another kind of fasting—imposed: “I must do it.” The one who is going to fast stuffs himself the night before—“Tomorrow I will fast”—crams in as much as he can. That causes more harm; better you had just eaten tomorrow. And then on the day of the fast, he thinks only of food the whole day. That day God is not remembered. That day it is only annam brahma—food is God!—and what a procession of dishes goes around in the mind, what aromas rise! Somewhere pakoras are being fried! Somewhere the fragrance of halva! Wherever you go, there it is. And he keeps thinking, “When will this day end? And what all shall I eat afterward?” Is that fasting? That is a state even more distorted than eating. You could have eaten—eaten twice—and the fuss would be over. Between two meals there were at least eight hours of fasting; now even that does not happen. Now the eating goes on—in imagination. At night you will even dream that the eating is going on.

A few people went on pilgrimage. Mulla Nasruddin was with them. On the way they were robbed. Only a little money was left. All four were hungry. They bought some halva in a village. But there was so little halva that it was only enough for one. Great dilemma—who should eat it? And if they divided it, no one would be satisfied. So they thought: whoever among us is the most valuable person should eat; his survival is necessary—even if the rest of us die, it will do. But who is the most valuable—how to decide? All four began to make claims: “I am more valuable than you because I am so educated.” Another said, “I have so many children—if I die, what will happen to them?” Another said, “I have just been married; I left my wife at home—she will become a widow; think of her too!” One said, “I am religious,” another said something else. Evening fell while they babbled on, but who would eat the halva? Finally they decided: let all four of us sleep and let God decide. In the night, whoever God gives the most beautiful dream to—he will eat in the morning.

All four slept. In the morning they got up. The first said, “Last night God appeared and hugged me to his chest. What could be more beautiful? What could be more exalted?” The second said, “That’s nothing. God seated me on his shoulders. What could be superior to that?” The third could not be left behind: “What are you people talking about? The moment he saw me, God did a full prostration!” The three turned to Nasruddin, a bit startled—now what would he do, because the last word had been said: God did a full prostration—end of story. Nasruddin said, “I didn’t have such lofty dreams. I saw God, and he said, ‘Hey, you fool, what are you lying there for? Eat the halva!’ So, brother, I got up right then and obeyed the command. The halva is finished.”

If you fast, you will have just such dreams: “Fool! What are you lying there for? Get up! Go to the refrigerator!”

I tell you neither to fast nor to cultivate vows. I say: let your awareness awaken, let your absorption deepen, let your inner being become full of rasa—juice! Then all these things will happen by themselves.

Forget about “practice”—listen, ponder, dive in!

That’s all for today.