Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #2

Chinmaya! To be a disciple is enough. In being a disciple, everything is included—the wick, the oil, the nearness. In this small word “disciple” the whole essence is hidden. And you ask, “What should the disciple be like?” Then you have not understood the essence of the word. A disciple is simply one kind. There are no categories of disciples. Disciples do not come in many kinds and varieties.

As love is one, as peace is one, as emptiness is one—so is the state of a disciple. Where is duality there? Where is multiplicity? Where is difference?

As the taste of all the seas is one—wherever you sip, the same saltiness—so the taste of the disciple is one. Test from anywhere, taste in any way, recognize however you will—the taste of the disciple is surrender. The disciple’s flavor is to drown oneself in the master. The meaning of disciple is: not saving oneself. The dissolution of the I-sense.

We live by the I-sense. We proceed as if I were the center of the whole existence; the whole existence revolves around me; for my sake the stars and moon move, the sun rises, trees grow, fruit and flowers appear—everything is happening for me. Such is the delusion of the ego. The disciple becomes free of this delusion. The disciple says: I am not. He says: In this vast expanse I am lost like a drop in the ocean. I am no longer preserved. I have no boundary of my own.

And whoever has the courage to erase himself in this way becomes entitled to attain everything.

The disciple is dissolution.
The disciple is surrender.
The disciple is, in spiritual terms, the supreme self-annihilation—wiping oneself out.

All at once this wiping out is not possible; otherwise one would merge directly into the divine and the satguru’s ladder would not be needed in between. The ladder of the satguru is needed because you are not ready to vanish all at once. You say: Let there be some support! By whose support shall I dissolve? I am ready to melt, but at whose feet shall I melt? Let there be some feet! I want to let go of myself, but into whose hands shall I place myself? God’s hands are not visible. Where are his feet to be understood? His heart—does it beat? It must be beating; otherwise how would existence run, how would it live? It is that heart which beats in all hearts. But how are we to hear its beat? We are so small, he so vast! We so petty, he so infinite! We so limited, he so limitless! Between us the distance is endless. Stretch out your hands—you do not reach him. Call out—your call does not reach. The voice stumbles and falls. It goes a little way, but how will it bridge an infinite expanse? There is no bridge. Between the individual and the divine there seems no bridge. Hence, the satguru!

The satguru is a wayside station—between the limited and the limitless, between the petty and the vast. The satguru is not the destination; do not stop there. From there, the leap is to be taken. The satguru is a ladder. Use it, offer gratitude, and move beyond.

The meaning of the satguru as ladder is: somewhat limited, somewhat limitless. One hand in the limited, one hand in the limitless. Visible as limited, and what is not visible is the limitless. In a body like ours, and bodiless like the divine. A link between man and God. He walks, stands, sits, sleeps, eats—just as we do. Therefore his hand can be held. One can lay one’s head at his feet. One can place the ear near his heart and hear its beat. His song is being sung in our language.

At times it may be difficult to understand, yet not impossible. If understood with a silent mind, an empty mind, at least a drop will fall. The pot may not be filled, but if even a single drop of water falls, the journey toward fullness has begun. Let one drop fall and the pot is no longer as empty as it was. And drop by drop oceans are made. If oceans are filled drop by drop, will not a small pitcher be filled?

From afar the satguru looks exactly like us; as you come closer, the satguru becomes a window, and through it the infinite sky begins to peep. The nearer you come, the more you find that what looked like us is not like us at all.

Therefore those who came near called the master God. Those who stayed far were always puzzled, startled, troubled; they got into arguments and controversy. Their raising objections is also apt, for they say: What kind of God is this!

Buddha’s disciples called Buddha God. Those who did not come near, who saw him from very far—how could they see Buddha’s innermost core? How could they experience Buddha’s within? How could they hear the beat of Buddha’s heart? How could they taste the flavor of Buddha’s emptiness? From afar they saw only Buddha’s state as body. And then they saw all those things that are in man, that are in all men. When Buddha fell ill, they thought: What kind of God! When Buddha grew old: What kind of God! Does God ever grow old? Does God ever fall ill? Buddha felt hunger—does God ever feel hunger? And then one day Buddha disappeared from the body, as all do—Buddha too died. So those who were far said: See! We told you: does God ever die?

There is logic and truth in their words as well. But they saw only half of Buddha. They saw the circumference and missed the center. They circled outside Buddha’s temple, saw the temple walls from the outside; the deity remained unknown. They saw Buddha’s veena, but not the music that rose from it. They saw Buddha’s flower, but the fragrance did not fill their nostrils. They remained so far, so protective of themselves, armored and shielded, that how could Buddha’s scent reach their nostrils? So they too rightly say: Why call a man God?

But those who came near, who gathered courage—and coming near takes courage, great courage! The greatest courage in this world is to come near a satguru. Because coming near means to melt, as a lump of salt descends into the ocean. The lump of salt will dissolve and disappear. Those who are ready to lose, who have seen life and seen its futility, who have examined life from all sides and found it empty and hollow—only they become ready to say: All right, there is nothing in life; now let us set out on this journey too! All other journeys we have made, in all ten directions; now this eleventh direction as well. Why miss this? Who knows—what was not found elsewhere may be found here!

Those who went near have always said: It is found. Who knows—they may be right! As they came close, the body faded. As they came closer, the consciousness abiding within became clear. Divinity began to manifest. Fragrance began to arise. Music began to be heard. And when the music is heard, the veena becomes secondary. The purpose of the veena is only until the music is heard; it is but a means.

When the vast sky within Buddha begins to be seen—and it can be seen only in nearness—if you remain far from the window you see only the window. Come close to the window and, beyond it, the sky that has no boundary, the stars that shine far away, that infinite beauty and the secret hidden in it—all of it showers upon you. Those who come and stand at the window forget the window itself.

Have you not seen? When you come and stand at the window, the window is forgotten, the frame is forgotten. What appears beyond the window—so unfathomable, so mysterious, so rapturous! Whoever stands at the window is spellbound, his eyes connect with the sky; the window is lost.

So those who came near called Buddha God. Those who stayed far said: At most he is a great man, but how can he be God?

Disciple means: God may not be directly found, but if in someone God has happened, if even a single ray of God has descended into someone, let me connect with him. Thus, indirectly, a relation with God is formed. Directly it does not form; indirectly it does. My eyes are blind; if I hold the hand of one who sees, I gain a relation with the world of sight.

Disciple means: to bow down. The literal meaning of “shishya” is the capacity to learn. Therefore those who are full of knowing cannot become disciples. Those stuffed with knowledge cannot become disciples. They are already full. Let them examine it a little: probe it, test their knowledge on the touchstone. What do you know? You know neither God nor the soul nor love nor prayer nor truth nor nirvana. Whence you came, you don’t know. Why you are here, you don’t know. Where you go, you don’t know. Yet you pose as a knower! You have collected some trash from the scriptures, picked up stale, borrowed words, and you keep clutching those stale words—pumping yourself with the illusion that “I know”!

I call this the pundit’s condition. The pundit is the state of supreme ignorance. Think of the night of the new moon—darkness upon darkness. And such darkness that it is cunning. Such darkness that it is clever enough to deceive you that “I am light.”

Words lodged within inflate the ego. The stiffness of ego is strengthened: “I know. How can I bow?” One who knows cannot bow. One who cannot bow cannot be a disciple. One who knows cannot spread his bowl. And one who cannot spread his bowl cannot be a disciple. Bow, and you will be filled. Spread your bowl, and nectar will shower.

Nectar is already showering; only you lack the courage to spread your bowl. He who has spread the bowl of his heart, who has said, “I know nothing,” who has said, “I am a nothing”—not merely said, but whose whole bearing has become that, whose inner posture is that, whose experience has distilled into that—he is the disciple. And once you are a disciple, everything else happens on its own.

You ask: “Please tell us what the disciple should be like for the flame to be lit.”

There is no question of “how.” Just be a disciple, and the flame will be lit.

“What kind of wick, what kind of oil, what kind of nearness?” No other nearness. Disciple means one who has already come near. What keeps you at a distance? Stiffness keeps you at a distance. The rigid person stays far, forever guarding himself. He is alert lest he be influenced! He is afraid that something might touch his heart, that his eyes might fill with tears! That something might happen beyond his control—that love might surge! For if love surges, knowledge lies useless. If love awakes, all scholarship becomes trash and falls aside.

The egoist says: “I know. It may be that there is more to know—I will know that too.” The egoist comes to the satguru only to gather a little more knowledge. And knowledge is darkness. You already carry plenty of junk; you collect a little more and return heavier. You put on more chains. Your boat grows heavier, closer to sinking. Already you have enough stones hanging from your chest.

The disciple says: Take my knowledge away from me. The knower says: Give me a little more knowledge. The knower says: Tell me the means to know more. Which scripture should I read, which doctrine should I understand—tell me the way.

The disciple says: I have wandered enough in the jungle of scriptures; I have not found the path. Set this whole forest on fire! Reduce these scriptures to ash! Free me from this knowledge. Give me again the ignorance a child has—simple, full of wonder, alert, brimming with inquiry!

The more you know, the more the bond of wonder between you and the world breaks. And that very bond is the religious bond—the bond of wonder. The more you know, the more it seems there is nothing in this world; you know everything already. Then the world no longer appears mysterious. And the person to whom the world does not appear mysterious can never see God in it.

What is God? The supreme experience of mystery. Not some person seated on a throne in the distant sky watching your path. God is the expansion of wonder. God is the destruction of all answers and the birth within of a question for which there is no answer. We have called that mumuksha.

Curiosity (jigyasa) can have answers; mumuksha (the longing to be free) has no answer. Therefore curiosity leads to philosophy; mumuksha leads to religion. And I will not say “religious scripture,” because religion has no scripture. What are called scriptures in the name of religion are, in essence, philosophical texts. They too are philosophical conjectures. Religion is to be experienced; it has no scripture. Yes, religion has masters, not scriptures. Buddha, Kabir, Sundardas—these are masters. They have known, lived, experienced. The flame is lit within them. From this flame the light that falls upon you—whoever comes near, and keeps coming nearer—his extinguished flame too will be kindled. But there are some who will watch this light from afar and manufacture doctrines out of it; they will be deprived. They will get the husk; the kernel will be missed.

Whenever a satguru is born, two kinds of people gather around him—disciples and pundits. The pundits miss. The disciples delight in the supreme ecstasy.

The disciple’s eyes should be empty of knowledge. The disciple’s heart should be vacant of answers—borrowed, stale, someone else’s. Then nearness begins to happen. Who keeps you far? Those mountains of knowledge you have piled up keep you far. When a Muslim comes to me, what keeps him far? The Qur’an stands between us. And he himself knows nothing of the Qur’an. The meaning of the Qur’an can become known only when the Qur’an between us is put aside. I am the Qur’an, but his Qur’an stands in the middle.

A Hindu comes; his Vedas, his Upanishads, his Gita—all stand in between. I seek him, but sometimes his Gita comes into my hand, sometimes his Veda, sometimes his Upanishad. His heart lies buried far away.

These layers upon layers of knowledge must be removed. And the delight, the paradox, is that when all this knowledge—these Vedas, Upanishads, and Gita—take their leave, then for the first time he will know what the Upanishads are, what the Veda is, what the Gita is. Cling, and you will miss. Let go, and you will know. Such is the reverse arithmetic. Those who consent to this reverse arithmetic are disciples.

And to be a disciple is enough; then nothing else is needed. Nearness happens by itself. Then neither wick, nor oil.

And the lamp I am speaking of is not a lamp of wick and oil. Wickless, oilless! This is the talk of the pure flame; for it no oil is needed, no wick is needed. The lamp that burns by wick and oil cannot be eternal; in a little while the oil is exhausted—then what? In a little while the wick is consumed—then what? No! What use is a lamp that is spent in a while? Give that which, once lit, never goes out. Only if it is without wick and without oil will it never be extinguished.

Where am I giving answers at all? When have I ever given answers? I am taking answers away. I am erasing answers. My effort is to wipe every answer from your mind, while your effort is to obtain a satisfying answer.

What does a “satisfying answer” mean? It means something you can hold on to—an answer you can grip and never let go. But that would be the end of your inner journey. If you get a satisfying answer from me, when will you search for the divine? If a satisfying answer is handed to you, what is left to seek? And if it comes from me, you will be bound to me forever, and you will start fearing that if you slip from me, the answer might slip away too.

I don’t want to sow fear in you. I want to make you fearless. I don’t want to bind you to myself. I want to give you total freedom. And how could an answer come from me anyway? The dissatisfaction is yours; the answer must be found by you. If the dissatisfaction is yours and the answer is mine, how will they ever match?

Go into the causes of your dissatisfaction. Cut the roots of it. Let dissatisfaction dissolve; let it be abandoned. I do not tell you to leave wealth, or status, or house and home. I tell you: drop dissatisfaction, drop sorrow, drop pain. Don’t keep clutching dissatisfaction. Find out what it is. Put a ladder down and climb into its depths. There you will find the resolution that ends it.

The solution hides inside the problem; but as long as you look for solutions outside while the problem is within, you will keep missing.

I understand your trouble.
You say: “I read many of your books...”
When I tell you there is no answer in the Vedas, do you think it could be in my books? If it could be in my books, why not in the Vedas? If it could be in mine, surely it would be in Krishna’s! There is no answer in any book. People have gone astray by clinging to books.

Read books, but don’t wander because of them. The worth of a book is not that it gives you an answer; its worth is that your question becomes clear, sharply present before you. Books won’t give you water; yes, they can give you thirst. About others’ books I won’t say much, but about mine I can say this with certainty: my books will increase your dissatisfaction. If someone tells me, “Your books have given me satisfaction,” I will be startled—some mistake has happened. Either I have slipped, or he has.

The whole aim is that no answer should come from the book. It would be stale, borrowed, alien. It must arise in your life, from your life, rooted in the soil of your own being. This flower must bloom within you. Flowers that bloom in me—even if I give them to you—will wither before they reach your hands. You can press them between the pages of your Gita or Quran; they will dry up and lose their fragrance. Dried flowers—people keep them in books; doctrines kept in books are just as dry.

No—do not look for answers in books. Humanity has been ruined by looking there. Someone is bound to the Quran, someone to the Gita, someone to the Dhammapada. Books became the masters of men; men became slaves of books—and then they began to fear: if the book slips away, what will become of me? Is this a state of knowing? A dead book becomes precious? Ink lines on paper become precious? Can ink lines on paper be truth? Then when you are hungry, just write “bread” on paper. When hunger strikes, press a cookbook to your chest. And when the hunger doesn’t subside, whose fault is it?

From your question it sounds, Mahesh, as if the fault is mine—that you did me such a favor, read so many books, expended such labor, yet got no answer! You’re clutching cookbooks to your chest; the stomach doesn’t understand that language. The stomach asks for bread. However exquisite the recipes, what use are they? My friend, you must cook the bread! Knead the dough. Of course it’s convenient to sit with a book—you need not knead, your hands won’t get messy, no fire to light, no stove to blow, no tears in the eyes, no trouble. Just keep the book against your heart. But hunger will keep growing. And the real danger is that you might deceive yourself that you have found the answer. Then you will die—die hungry, die unsatisfied.

So what is a cookbook for, naturally you ask. If it can’t give the food, why the book? The book is not there to give you the answer; it is there to intensify and clarify your question. A true master clarifies your questions—so clearly that your question stands naked before your eyes. So clearly that not only the leaves are seen, even the roots of the question become visible. And when the roots become visible, the matter is in your hands: if you wish, you can pull them out and the question will vanish. Or if you enjoy your question, you can water it, tend the plant, fertilize it—and it will grow larger.

The problem is inside; the solution too must arise inside. And the beauty is that inside every problem, its solution is hidden. If you enter the problem rightly, the solution appears. The master doesn’t give you the solution; he gives you the vision to find it, the direction to search.

But people are blind. Humanity is a strange thing. I point my finger and say, “Look at the moon.” You grab my finger. You say, “Where is the moon? We have been holding your finger for so long—we are reading your book. Where is the moon?”

Books are fingers pointing to the moon. They are not the moon. Don’t hold onto the fingers. Some are even sucking the fingers—spiritual infants! As small children suck their thumbs, so spiritual infants suck the pointing fingers and imagine there is great taste in it.

And sometimes what happens to dogs can happen to you. Dogs suck on dry bones. A dry bone has nothing in it, no juice at all. But the dog keeps sucking. Try to take it away and the dog gets angry. Likewise, someone tries to take away your Veda—you are angry. Someone tries to take away your Quran—you are angry. Dry bones! Why does the dog get angry if you take the bone? What pleasure is he getting from it? There is no juice—but there is a trick. While sucking, his gums get abraded and start bleeding. He is tasting his own blood and thinks it comes from the bone. The blood is flowing from his own wounds. He enjoys the taste and concludes: what a juicy bone!

Whatever you “get” from scriptures is not coming from the scriptures. The scriptures are dry bones. Whatever you get always comes from within you, and needless wounds form in between—wounds called Hindu, Jain, Christian. These are wounds.

I want to free you from wounds, and I want you to see: drop these dry bones. As long as you search for the answer outside, you will find only dry bones. Outside lie heaps of them; the living stream flows within. The connection with the divine is within.

You say: “I have read many of your books, but not a single satisfying answer was found.”
This is excellent—auspicious. Blessed are you that you did not find an answer. The answer comes in samadhi. The resolution comes in samadhi. The books only point and say: meditate. The books say: knead the dough. The books say: here is the path—walk it and you will come to the lake.

Don’t clutch the book and sit. Books are milestones, maps. Turn those maps into living travel.

Even now you ask: “Please give me an answer that satisfies.”
I am not your enemy; otherwise I would surely give you a satisfying answer. I do not want to give you satisfaction. I want to inflame your dissatisfaction so intensely that you burst into flame—become fire. Let dissatisfaction so surround your life that nothing can satisfy—money cannot, wife cannot, position cannot, scriptures cannot, temples and mosques cannot; let the whole world be filled with the blaze of dissatisfaction—only then will you turn within, otherwise you will not.

People don’t turn within cheaply. They turn within only when no avenue is left. As long as even a small possibility remains, they keep going, thinking: “Let me try a bit more in this direction—perhaps if I get a little more money, all will be well. Let me contest an election—if I reach Delhi, perhaps all will be well. Let me perform a few more vows and fasts, a little more temple-and-mosque worship...”

As long as even a sliver of hope remains anywhere, you will keep wandering. Buddha said: Blessed are those who are disillusioned. Disillusioned! Sometimes the sage’s words shock us: blessed are those who are hopeless and disappointed—why? Because only they begin the inner journey. Those who have knocked on all doors and found walls; those who have begged at many doors and received nothing—returned empty, insulted, rebuked, told everywhere to move on—such people, from all this burning and pain, one day close their eyes and knock on the inner door—and whoever knocks there finds contentment.

Contentment is the name of that inner state where no question remains. Contentment is not an answer to a question; it is the dissolution of all questions. Contentment is not a doctrine; it is a state of realization.

Do you see the difference? “Doctrine” and “state of realization” share a root, but doctrine is outside, realization is inside. “Solution” and “samadhi” share a root; solution is outside, samadhi is inside.

Become realized. Knock on the inner door. You have chased answers long enough; now seek that in which the mind becomes free of questions. And do you not see—ask one question, receive one answer—will it resolve anything? Whatever answer you get, will it resolve? That answer will give birth to ten more questions. That is all that happens.

A man asks: Who created the world? You say, God created it. The next day he stands before you: Why did God create the world? You say, It is divine play. The third day: What kind of play is this, with so much suffering? Someone starving to death, a child with cancer, one born blind, another lame—what kind of play is this? You answer: God is teaching us a lesson. The fourth day he returns: Doesn’t he have an easier, more civilized way to teach? He is omniscient, omnipotent—why the need for lessons? Why not give knowledge directly? It is said he makes the lame climb mountains and gives eyes to the blind—then why this torment? Why this needless harassment? Just grant the knowledge.

Do you think any question ever gets resolved? Give one answer and ten more questions rise. Whatever the answer, it will provoke more questions. Questions don’t believe in family planning; they reproduce endlessly—thoroughly Indian! Until they have a dozen children, their burden doesn’t lessen; they keep swelling into a crowd and raising a racket.

But samadhi is barren. You will be surprised: I say samadhi is barren. Whoever reaches samadhi, no questions arise, no answers arise. All gone. Questions and answers both gone. They are two sides of the same coin, not separate as you think.

When someone gives you an answer, that’s one side. Hidden beneath is the next question coming. You will get more and more entangled.

No, I am not eager to give you answers. Then what am I doing? Every day I speak to you! These are not answers. That is why you did not find satisfaction by reading my books. You want ready-made answers.

A Christian missionary came to me and said, “Your books are lovely. But make a small catechism—a booklet in which all essential questions and answers are given in brief, so anyone can memorize them. Like the Christian catechisms—question and answer, concise.” I told him, Brother, life is not that easy, not that cheap. Your little catechisms of Q&A are childish. They may give the dull a tiny relief, the dead a bit of consolation—but for those who have real inquiry, a thirst for liberation, your books are trash. They solve nothing.

A living person does not really want answers—he longs for a state of mind in which no questions arise; a deep silence; an incomparable peace; all resolved. Therefore our search is not for solutions, but for samadhi.

Ah, that longed-for destination is far and near.
Long has it been since caravans set out that way.
Temples and mosques are dust along the road; the sun and moon are but footprints.
None of these are the caravan’s destination of love.
Who gave that cry of pain—whose glance was lifted?
Now non-being is no longer non-being; now this world is no longer this world.

Temples and mosques are the dust of the path; they are not life’s destination.
Ah, that longed-for destination is far and near.
It is the yearning of yearnings—the longed-for goal! The dream of dreams! The desire behind all desires!
Ah, that longed-for destination is far and near.
Why both far and near? If you travel by question and answer, it is far—endlessly far—no one ever reaches that way. And it is near: close your eyes, dive within—it is here and now.
Ah, that longed-for destination is far and near.
Long has it been since caravans set out that way.

Very few go that way.
Long has it been since caravans set out that way.
The pilgrim bands don’t go within; someone goes to Kaba, someone to Kashi, someone to Girnar.
Long has it been since caravans set out that way.
Go within, Mahesh—go within! Not into books, not into words, not into doctrines—descend into silence!

Temples and mosques are dust on the road; the sun and moon are footprints.
None of these are the caravan’s destination of love.
What you are searching for within—neither temples nor mosques nor the moon and stars can satisfy it. Satisfaction will arise from only one center—the fragrance will rise from only one source—and that center you carry within you. In the seeker, the search is hidden. The destination is hidden in the traveler. There is nowhere to go; it is a matter of coming home. And in a single moment, everything changes.

Who gave that cry of pain, whose glance was raised?
Now non-being is no longer non-being, now this world is no longer this world.

In the moment of samadhi, everything changes. This world is no longer the world; this person is no longer the person; this mind is no longer the mind. Questions are not questions, answers are not answers. In an instant, you are transformed into another realm.

My effort is not to give you a satisfying answer; my effort is to give you samadhi. Satisfaction is but the shadow of samadhi.

May the world receive this secret by some kind of art,
May it receive this harmony by some instrument,
We would grant the world the peace of the eternal—
If only there were some sense of the heart’s own beating.
What is the real question?
If only there were some sense of the heart’s own beating.
What is the real question? Who am I?
If only there were some sense of the heart’s own beating.

There is only one secret to be opened. And what is the veil? Only this—that we don’t look within. The eyes look outward—that is the veil.

Did you not hear yesterday, Sundardas said it again and again: if you look with the eyes outward, you will miss. If you listen with the ears outward, the unstruck sound will not be heard. Taste outward with the tongue—you will not taste the divine. Turn back! Reverse the current! Withdraw! Turn the eyes inward, turn the ears inward. Hear the sound that is within. See the vision that is within.

Rabia was sitting in her hut. The fakir Hasan stepped outside. Morning dawned, the sun rose—lovely sun! Birds singing! Cool morning breeze! Enraptured, Hasan called inside: “Rabia! What are you doing in there? Come out, see what a beautiful morning God has created!”

Rabia burst into laughter: “Crazy Hasan! You come inside—because the One who created the morning, I am seeing Him within. The morning is very beautiful—but what to say of the beauty of the One who made it!”

Mahesh, come within.

Those burnings, those pains vanished; life was transformed.
Now it is a question of love—what is this that has been done, what has happened?
When you return within, you will be startled. You won’t even grasp what happened, what you did! Everything changes like a lightning flash. Where there was nothing but hatred, enmity, jealousy, hostility—there a Ganga of love begins to flow. Where storms of questions kept rising, there a silence descends in which not even a ripple of wind remains. Where there were only gales and tempests, the flame of life becomes so steady that even a quiver is not seen.

Erase the silence of evening—there is great darkness.
Light the candle of the word—there is great darkness.
Let the ill-starred of the age begin to shine;
Sing the song of pain—there is great darkness.
In the land of sorrow the restless heart was lost—
Go search with care—there is great darkness.
This night is such that even hand cannot see hand—
Do not let your thoughts wander far—there is great darkness.
He himself is absent from the assembly of grief today—
Call for his smiles—there is great darkness.
Those who stood, sin-veiled, in the eye of Adam—
Let those tears flow—there is great darkness.

Be steeped in love. Awaken in samadhi. Dance—the dance that has been held back for so many lives! Cry—the tears you have been holding in your eyes for so long! Sing! Hum! Thus samadhi will fructify. And where samadhi is, there is no darkness. Where samadhi is, there is no dissatisfaction.

No—nothing will be resolved by answers. It is good that books did not give you answers. Unfortunate are those who find answers in books; they press them to the chest and sit.

Who knew what they were saying—no one truly aware;
Yes, in the assembly there was a fervor of speeches.
Seeing this style of the sober ones, Firaq,
Even the madman paused to think—and fell silent.
Here the so-called sober ones—scholars and priests and saints—are busy giving answers. Great debates are ongoing!

Who knew what they were saying—no one truly aware;
Yes, in the assembly there was a fervor of speeches.
People don’t even know what they are saying. Remember what Sundardas said yesterday: until awareness awakens, say nothing. If awareness has not arisen within, remain silent. Here, people are answering—ask anyone anything. It is rare to find someone who says, “I don’t know.” Ask anyone: Is there a God? Someone will say, “Yes,” and be ready to kill and be killed if you don’t agree. Another will say, “No,” and he too is ready to kill and be killed if you don’t agree. One says, “He has four faces,” another, “A thousand hands,” another, “Formless”—and all are quarreling.

Just see what tangles these answer-givers are in, and how they fight! They themselves have found no contentment—whose contentment will their answers bring? How petty the disputes are! So petty it is unbelievable.

I was a guest in a village. Passing a Jain temple, I saw police posted; it was locked. I asked what happened. They said a quarrel arose between Digambaras and Svetambaras. Both revere Mahavira; their differences are tiny—so childish they provoke laughter—yet great sages, monks, are locked in dispute. The issue? The police laughed too and said, “We can’t help but laugh. In this temple both sects have always worshiped. One worships until noon, the other after. The Svetambaras worship Mahavira with open eyes; the Digambaras worship with eyes closed.

“Think of the dispute! The statue’s eyes are carved closed. When Svetambaras worship, they stick on artificial open eyes and then worship. When the Digambaras come, they remove the artificial eyes and worship the closed eyes. Some Svetambara devotees—devotees? troublemakers!—got carried away and kept worshiping past their time. Then some Digambara devotees arrived—there are naïve ones among every sect—and said, ‘Move! Time is up, now we will worship.’ They forcibly removed the eyes. If someone pulls out your God’s eyes—though both worship the same God!—heads break, sticks fly.”

See these answer-givers—temples and mosques—all this inflames conflict. Will their answers give you resolution? Where is their own resolution?

Who knew what they were saying—no one truly aware;
Yes, in the assembly there was a fervor of speeches.
Yes, there are many speeches, debates, scriptural duels.

Seeing this style of the sober ones, Firaq,
Even the madman paused to think—and fell silent.
Become mad, Mahesh—learn silence. Take up quietude. Now descend into the inner scripture: there is the scripture beyond all scriptures; there is the Veda beyond all Vedas. Where all thought disappears, there is the answer—not as an answer, but as resolution; not as resolution, but as samadhi. Then no question arises. Then there is no grip on any doctrine. Then not only does a flower of contentment bloom within you; those who come near you also catch a little glow, a little color of your contentment.

Nishtha! This is exactly what this gathering is for. This is why so many ecstatic ones have come together—so that the flame may be lit. I am ready; the moment you are ready, the happening takes place. And then, naturally, a deep “aho!” of wonder and gratitude arises. May such an “aho-bhav” awaken in all, may such an hour come to everyone, may such a current flow through all—that is my longing.

Auspicious indeed. The whole body trembles and overflows—it does overflow! A certain wine begins to flow within, in which there is great drunkenness and great awareness at once. The disciple drowns in this wondrous wine so that the more he is intoxicated, the more alert he becomes. On one side, ecstasy spreads, a dance rises; on the other side, everything grows utterly quiet.

You said:
“Every hair, every pore has overflowed with just a single feeling!
I am a sacrifice to you, O Master!”
Do not let this feeling slip away. Let it slowly become an abiding mood. Such a feeling comes again and again—and then it is lost. And when it is lost, the pain is great. Those who have never known the light, who have not even had a glimpse, feel no pain in the dark. They make peace with darkness. They believe darkness is all there is. But when, for the first time, a glimpse of light comes and then goes, the darkness becomes very dense. It bites. The one who has tasted nectar finds the whole of life turning to poison.

So let this feeling become permanent. Guard it. Guard it as a pregnant woman guards her womb. She walks, stands, sits, even works—but she is mindful at every moment. A new life is taking birth within her. Everything is dedicated to that. She no longer runs, for she cannot run. She no longer quarrels, for a new life is arriving—lest it be tainted from the very first!

Nishtha, you have become pregnant! Now guard this feeling in your womb.

“Blessed my True Master, who let me hear the nectarine note,
who kindled the flame of life.”
What has happened so far is like this: on an amavas night, clouds gathered, and lightning flashed—there was light for a moment, and then thick darkness again. Now this light must be made into a source of eternal radiance. Now you have something to lose; now walk carefully.

I have heard: Every night, as old emperors would, a Japanese emperor rode through his capital. All slept—except for one naked fakir, owning nothing, who sat beneath a tree utterly alert, eyes open, watchful. Gradually the emperor grew curious. He would find only that one man awake, always. One night he stopped and asked, “May I ask, why do you sit awake like this? You have nothing. Sleep in peace!”

The fakir laughed: “I slept plenty—when I had nothing. Then I could pull a sheet over myself and sleep. But now I have something that must be guarded. How can I sleep? There is the fear it may be stolen, that it might slip from my hands in sleep.” The emperor said, “But I see nothing here—only a begging bowl and a tattered blanket. What do you have?” The fakir said, “Look into my eyes.”

The emperor had never looked into anyone’s eyes like that—and never such eyes that held something to see. He looked, and was astonished. A moment later, when they parted, the emperor had become a beggar and the beggar an emperor. What happened? The emperor saw there was indeed a treasure within—a new kingdom. And the fakir was right: now there was something to lose.

This is my daily experience: when my sannyasins come to have something to lose, I caution them greatly. I tell them again and again: walk carefully now, or you will repent. The higher you rise, the greater the possibility of falling. And the higher the ledge you walk, the more vigilant you must be. Those who move in the valleys below—what need have they of vigilance? They can even walk in sleep.

So, Nishtha, from today you are pregnant. Guard this “aho-bhav” that has awakened in you. This small glimpse of the flame—do not let it be lost. Stake everything on it now. Put a fence around it from all sides. Do nothing that could hurt this flame. Do everything that will feed and water it.

“I am a sacrifice to these feet
that showed the true path.
Again and again, a sacrifice, a sacrifice,
a sacrifice to you, O True Master!
Blessed my True Master, who kindled the nectar-light!”
It has been lit; the first glimpse has arisen—not only in you, in others too. In many, it is rising. I speak to all through you. And when I answer one, do not think I answer only that one. They are but a pretext. Through them I answer all who are in the same state.

When this flame begins to awaken within, now be careful—do not be angry. Not because anger is “bad”—now it is not a question of good and bad. Now anger is stupidity. If a stone is in your hand and anger comes, throw it; no harm done. But now a diamond is in your hand—do not be angry, or in your rage you may fling it away—and it will be gone! And now it is easy to be free of anger. Now, little by little, bow to sexual desire and bid it farewell, because this flame burns with the very energy from which lust burns. If lust is kept blazing now, this flame will not get the nourishment it needs. So gradually, gently, free yourself of it.

I am not teaching you a lesson in celibacy—that is precisely my distinction. I am telling you something straightforward, mathematical. Now the door has opened for the energy to move upward. Now energy must be gathered so you can ascend. I never tell you, “Abandon the petty.” I always say, “Attain the vast.” But the moment the journey to the vast begins, the petty begins to drop. The petty has to be left.

Imagine: you were filling your pouch with pebbles and stones; suddenly you find a diamond mine—what will you do? Will you not empty the pebbles from your pouch? If you don’t, how will you fill it with diamonds? Do not call this renunciation—what renunciation is this? If you drop pebbles and fill your pouch with diamonds, where is the renunciation? This is supreme enjoyment.

That is why I say: only fools renounce; the wise enjoy. The wise are great enjoyers.

A man came to Ramakrishna with a lot of money and laid it at his feet. Ramakrishna said, “What are you doing?” The man replied, “You are such a great renunciate; I can do nothing else. I am a sensualist, corrupt, but at least I can bow my head at the feet of a renunciate and offer what I have.”

Ramakrishna said, “You speak wrongly. I am the enjoyer; you are the renunciate.” The man was startled—so were the disciples. “What are you saying—that you are the enjoyer and I the renunciate?” The man pleaded, “Do not speak in riddles. Tell me plainly.”

Ramakrishna said, “Understand it as arithmetic. The one who drops pebbles and ties up a bundle of diamonds—will you call him an enjoyer or a renunciate?” The man said, “An enjoyer.” “And the one who ties up pebbles and leaves the diamonds—what will you call him?” “Certainly, a renunciate.” Ramakrishna said, “That is exactly your and my condition. You have bundled up the worthless; I have bundled up the precious. What I dropped is worth two pennies; what I gained is priceless. What you dropped is priceless; what you gained is worth two pennies. You are the great renunciate. I should be honoring you!”

I say the same to you: this is the truth. When a new energy begins to arise in life, a great revolution happens. You will have to reorder everything. Now you must arrange all in consideration of this energy.

An incident: A great Chinese thinker gifted a wooden casket to the German philosopher, Count Keyserling. A beautiful casket—very old, said to be five thousand years old. It came with a condition that all who had possessed it for five thousand years had fulfilled. “Out of respect for them,” wrote the Chinese friend, “please fulfill it too: the mouth of the casket must always face the East, toward the rising sun.”

Keyserling thought, “Where is the difficulty?” He placed it in his drawing room—so precious, intricately carved, ancient, worth a fortune—and turned it to face East. But a problem arose: with the casket facing East, the whole room fell out of harmony. So he changed the furniture to match the casket. Then the doors and windows did not match the furniture and casket; being a man of artistic sensitivity, he changed those too. Now the room clashed with the rest of the house; he rebuilt the house. Now the house clashed with the garden; he wrote to his friend: “This is going beyond limits. I will change the garden too, but then my house will not match the entire village. I have no control over the village!”

When I read this in Keyserling’s autobiography, it struck me as significant. The same happens in life. Let just one thing change—sometimes a very small thing—and your entire life-stream must be rearranged in accord with it.

People ask me, “Why do you insist that a sannyasin wear ochre, that he wear a mala? What will these small things do?” Remember Keyserling. That small mala on the neck can transform your whole life—if you have even a little sensitivity. Because then I am with you. Then you will have to live keeping me a little in mind. A curse forming on your lips will stop—because it won’t harmonize with the mala. Standing in the cinema ticket queue, you will drift away—because it won’t harmonize with the ochre robes.

A friend of mine drank. He took sannyas. Only a drinker can take sannyas—who else will! He told me, “Let me be frank: I am a drunkard.” I said, “Don’t worry. My kinship is with drunkards. Take sannyas.” He said, “But even after sannyas I won’t be able to quit drink. I’ve tried all my life. It won’t leave me.” I said, “Don’t worry. Take sannyas, and then we’ll see.”

Five or seven days later he came: “You’ve put me in a fix. Yesterday, as I was going into a liquor shop, a man suddenly prostrated, touched my feet and said, ‘Maharaj-ji, where are you going? This is a liquor house!’ I had to turn back. What could I tell him? He must have thought the Maharaj had lost his way!” He said, “You’ve created a nuisance. Now I’m afraid to go—someone will grab my feet: ‘Swamiji, you here!’ What will I answer?” I said, “Now you decide. If you want to save your sannyas, save it; if you want to save your drink, save that. I have created the predicament—now you choose.”

Small things can change life from the roots.

Nishtha, good. Now guard this flame. Now live by this flame. Now align your whole life to it. Nothing is more valuable than this flame. Whatever accords with it is right. Whatever does not accord with it is not right. Now this flame is the touchstone.

There is anger even in the question. “Wicked anger!” “Enemy in the form of anger!” “Give such a blessing that it is reduced to ashes forever!”
Will you trap me too? I am trying somehow to take you to heaven, and you intend to drag me to hell.

And anger is not such an easy matter that you can be freed of it by a blessing. Anger is hidden in your roots. It is not something superimposed from outside. It is not like clothing you can put on and take off. Anger is such that if it is peeled away, it will be as if your skin were being flayed—there will be pain, suffering, blood will flow. And if all your life you have been angry, it must have permeated every fiber of your being. Your question makes it evident. What your conscious mind could not say, the language of your question has already revealed. I understand your anguish.

But the way out of this anger is not its renunciation; how will you renounce it? It is not a thing you can drop. It is you. You have become anger-shaped. It has pervaded your every fiber. You will have to become aware. Do not make anger the basis of your life and thinking. Enter into meditation. Meditation will make you alert. Meditation will give you the capacity to see anger as it arises. Anger continues only because we are unconscious. Anger is a part of unconsciousness. You only come to know it when the anger has already come and gone, the mischief has happened. You’ve already beaten the wife, broken things, there’s been a brawl; handcuffs are on your wrists and you’re on your way to court—then it occurs to you: “Again it happened.” As awareness grows, you will notice sooner—not so late—when anger is present, when your fists are clenching, your teeth are filling with rage, your jaws going wild with fury; then you’ll remember: this is anger; it’s happening. Then, as the depth of awareness increases, you will see: anger is about to come—clouds have gathered in the sky; it hasn’t rained yet—and you’ll understand that anger is on its way.

When your attention becomes so deep that you can see it before it comes, then you will be able to be free; before that you will not. Before that you may take vows, oaths, disciplines, ask for blessings—none of it will work. These are all excuses. You will remain as you are.

And I know this is not the first time you’ve asked for such a blessing. You must have asked before as well. And whenever the blessing does not bear fruit you’ll think, “This saint is worthless too; this mahatma is no good. The blessing didn’t work!” As if it were the mahatma’s responsibility that your anger should disappear! This responsibility is yours.

Anger is not renounced. If anger is known, then slowly, slowly it subsides. Anger is not to be suppressed (daman); it is to be soothed and dissolved (shaman).

Anger is a deranged state of your mind. In anger you go mad for a moment. It is temporary madness. How will you renounce this madness? It arises from within you. And when it arises, where are you?

A man was standing on the roof of his house. Emperor Akbar’s procession was passing by. He started hurling nonsensical abuses at Akbar. Akbar was very surprised. The man was caught and thrown into prison. The next morning he was brought to court and Akbar said, “Are you in your senses? What were you shouting? Why did you abuse? Don’t you know how to behave with the emperor?”
The man said, “I never abused at all.”
Akbar said, “This is too much! I was there myself; do I need any other witness?”
The man said, “I’m not saying you were not present. You may well have been present. I was not present. I was drunk. I have no awareness of what I did.”

In anger you are in just such a state of unconsciousness. Go ask a chemist, a physician: what happens in anger? The glands that secrete toxins release their poisons into your blood. Your whole blood becomes toxic. In that poisoned state, whether you drank liquor from outside or it arose from inside—what difference does it make? Then whatever you do, you are not in your senses. Many times people have committed murder, and they did not do it in awareness; it happened in a deranged state.

Listen to this little story—

While serving the guests at a feast, the village barber, Chhakori, heard that on this year’s pilgrimage Thakur Barrister Singh had renounced anger, and he was astonished. Surrounded by friends and puffed up with pride, Thakur Sahib sat enthroned; Chhakori went up to him and very humbly said, “Master, what did you renounce on this year’s pilgrimage?”
“Anger, Chhakori. We have renounced anger for life,” Thakur Sahib said in a smoothly calm voice.
“Blessed! The four sacred shrines visited, a feast for four villages, and the renunciation of anger! Master, you are a great mahatma,” said Chhakori, and went back to his work.
A little later he returned, reported on the arrangements for the feast, and very softly asked, “This time, what did Your Honor leave at the holy places?”
Thakur Sahib looked straight into Chhakori’s eyes and answered in a measured voice, “Anger. We have left anger.”
“Wah, wah, Master! What a great renunciation! Blessed are you.” And he went toward the dining area.
After a few moments Chhakori returned again, and chatting about this and that, he softly asked, “Lord and Master, what did you renounce on this pilgrimage?”
Glaring at the barber, Thakur Sahib said, “I just told you—we have given up anger.”
“Yes, Master. Blessed, blessed!”
After a while Chhakori came again and quietly began to press Thakur Sahib’s feet. Then he got up, touched his feet, and said, “Your Excellency, on this pilgrimage what renunciation did you undertake?”
This time, as soon as Thakur Sahib heard the barber’s question, his eyes turned red, his eyebrows slanted. In a harsh voice he barked, “Hey you, barber! I’ve told you ten times—we’ve given up anger. Are you deaf?”
“Yes, sir. By renouncing anger you have done a most meritorious deed. Blessed are you!”
Smiling to himself, Chhakori walked away. This time he returned after a longer interval. Thakur Sahib was engrossed in talking with his cronies. Offering a silver tumbler of water, Chhakori said, “Huzoor…”
At the sound of Chhakori’s voice, Thakur Sahib’s eyes shot up to his forehead. Startled, Chhakori stepped back a little. Thakur Sahib grabbed his shoe, and Chhakori ran. Ahead ran the barber with the water glass in his hand, and behind him Thakur Barrister Singh with a shoe in his hand: “You damned barber! You rascal! You low-born! I’ve told this son of a bitch fifty times that I’ve given up anger, and still the bastard…”

Anger is not “left.” Anger is understood. If you try to “leave” it, you’ll land in just such a mess. Understand anger. Be awake to it. Recognize it. Dig out its spread roots. And don’t decide in advance that anger is bad. If you decide beforehand, you won’t be able to know it. Once you have already concluded, how will you know? To know, the mind must be free of conclusions.

Forget that the scriptures have said that anger is the enemy. You have not yet known it. And until you have known, scriptures are not worth two pennies. Forget that anger is poison. You have not recognized it yet. Only when it becomes your own recognition does this have meaning; otherwise it’s all nonsense. Drop all decisions and conclusions about what anger is.

Decisionless, free of conclusions—when anger arises within you, look at it the way one looks at a cloud rising in the sky. Neither good nor bad. Neither for nor against. Just recognize: what is it? What is anger? Slowly, slowly, only when anger happens will your eye open. And slowly, slowly, before anger comes you will sense its faint rustle—and your eye will open. And finally, there will not even be a rustle: someone else will create a situation, will abuse you, will insult you; the very moment he abuses or insults, you will know the situation is present. If I go unconscious, anger will arise. If I stay alert, full of awareness—if this lamp of awareness remains lit—then anger will not happen.

In awareness, anger dissolves, just as there is no darkness in light. Enough for today.