Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #20
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, even with a living master present, in our country the dead are worshipped. Is this our misfortune, our foolishness, or our downfall?
Osho, even with a living master present, in our country the dead are worshipped. Is this our misfortune, our foolishness, or our downfall?
Satya Prem! Neither misfortune, nor foolishness, nor downfall. It has always been so. This has been man’s way. It is built into the very mode of human being. It is an inevitable part of man’s unconsciousness. You can worship the dead; with the living you have to be transformed. Worship won’t do. Worship is a trick to avoid, a device, a politics. The most cultured way to avoid someone is to worship him. Offer a couple of flowers at his feet and be free—and remain exactly as you were. And you even take the inner pleasure of feeling you did something. In fact you did nothing. The flowers belonged to the trees; they were already dedicated to the divine. You plucked them and placed them on a stone idol or on a scripture.
All flowers are already at the feet of the divine. All the birds’ songs are prayers unto him. When the sun rises, it performs his aarti. But in your mind there is restlessness, a sense of guilt. You know you are not as you should be. Something needs to be done. Yet if you do the real thing, it is costly, a long journey, a difficult path. The real work hurts your vested interests. Do the real, and you cannot remain as you are: your anger must change, your greed must change, your lust must be transformed. You will have to change the attitudes of your mind, the style of your life.
Such a costly task you do not want. Such a hassle you do not want to take on. But you also don’t want to remain a culprit in your own eyes. You want to be able to tell yourself, “I did something!” If it doesn’t happen, then it was my misfortune—but it isn’t that I didn’t do anything; I did something!
So you look for cheap substitutes. You go to the temple and light a lamp. How will the lamp lit in the temple help? The lamp must be lit within. Lighting it inside requires long practice. Lighting it in the temple involves no difficulty. You offered flowers—will you offer the flowers that grow on trees? Grow flowers within! Become a flower yourself! When your own lotus blossoms, take that to offer to the divine—then you bring something real, a true offering.
But for your lotus to bloom, you will have to travel from lust to the divine; only then will your lotus open. You are not ready for such a journey. Nor are you ready to admit that you are doing nothing. So man devises little somethings to do—devices that allow the illusion of doing while nothing need truly be done. Thus a pseudo-religion is born—of worship, adoration, ritual.
Religion is practice—not worship, not adoration, not mere devotion. Religion is practice. And the laboratory of religion is within. Neither go to Kashi nor to Kaaba—if you must go anywhere, go within. That is the pilgrimage. If you need to take a dip, don’t look for Ganges outside. The outer Ganga is man’s contrivance; the inner Ganga is the stream the divine has made flow. Enter that!
But to go within brings many fears. The first fear: as you go in, you become alone. No wife, no son, no friends—no one will be with you. You will be alone. Aloneness feels frightening. And as you descend within, at first you encounter a frightening darkness. In the dark one feels afraid. Having stayed so long outside, your eyes have lost the capacity to recognize the inner light.
Notice it: on a blazing afternoon you walk miles and return home; the moment you enter, it seems dark. Your eyes have become accustomed to the glare. Rest a bit, relax, and the darkness begins to dissolve. There was no darkness; your eyes, habituated to great brightness, could not see this gentle, dim light. Now they adjust.
Exactly this happens inside. You have been going outward and outward; you are familiar with outer light. The inner light is very gentle, cool. The outer light is scorching, like noon. The inner light is like the interval when the sun has set but night has not yet come—twilight. Or dawn, when the night has gone and the last star is sinking—the interval. The inner light is dim, cool, not searing. And you haven’t gone in for lifetimes; your eyes will take time to adjust.
So the first time you go in, you will find darkness. Darkness frightens. And seeing darkness, you will think all the saints talk nonsense—they said inside is the Light of lights, as if a thousand suns rise together! Yet whenever you go in, you find darkness. You panic and return. Outside at least there is light!
Let me remind you of a Sufi story of Rabia, which I have told often and love very much. One evening people saw old Rabia searching for something outside her hut. The neighbors, who respected her but also thought her a bit eccentric, asked, “What is lost?” She said, “My needle. I was sewing; it fell.” They all began to search. Evening was descending, the light fading. A wise one asked, “Where exactly did it fall? The path is long. If we search everywhere, night will fall. If we know the precise spot, it will be easier.” Rabia laughed and said, “Don’t ask where it fell. It fell inside my house. But it is dark in there; how can one search in the dark? There is light outside, so I am searching here.” They stopped. “You are mad—you make us mad with you.” Rabia said, “No, I am only following your logic. You seek joy outside, though you lost it within. You look for God outside, though God is within. I am following your logic. Your reason is the same as mine: it seems light outside, dark within.”
When you first go in, you will find darkness—and that frightens. And what else is there with a living master, if not the journey within? In the presence of a living master only one thing happens: the inner journey begins—and there is terrifying darkness.
The seeker’s journey begins on the night of no moon, and it is fulfilled on the night of the full moon. But first one must face the new-moon dark.
Second: the enlightened ones say that as you go within, you will have the vision of the soul, the encounter with the divine. But that will not happen to you immediately. You will go in and encounter only your lust; no God will be found. You will find how many insects of lust crawl inside you; thousands of snakes and scorpions slither within—of anger, enmity, jealousy, destructiveness, hatred, repulsion. You will panic: What pus-filled world is this? I set out to experience God, to seek liberation, and I have found the address of hell.
You must first pass through hell—because that is what you have built up to now. God is also within. Those who said so did not lie; they spoke from knowing. I tell you, God is within—I say it as a witness, an eyewitness. But at the center is God. It will take time to reach the center. Between your circumference and the center is a long interval, a long distance—and you have stuffed that distance with hell. You created it. When anger arose, you repressed it; when hatred arose, you repressed it; when lust stirred, you repressed it. Those suppressed snakes and scorpions lie writhing within. When you go in, how will you not meet them? You must meet them.
The great Western thinker David Hume wrote: “Accepting Socrates’ dictum ‘Know thyself,’ I too went within. But I found nothing there except desires, cravings, memories, fantasies—worthless trash. I found no soul.” It won’t be found so quickly.
If one digs a well, do you think a water vein erupts at once? If water does not appear after a couple of feet and you go back saying, “There is no water within,” you make Hume’s mistake. However great a thinker he was, in my view he was hasty. He lacked patience.
When you dig a well, water exists everywhere; that is another matter—here it may be at fifty feet, there at five, elsewhere at five hundred. But there is no spot on earth where, if you keep digging, water is not found. Water is. Yet the depth varies with each person—because each person is unique. You have lived in your own way for lifetimes. You must dig through what you have accumulated. Another has accumulated something else; a third, something else. Everyone’s layers differ.
Man is like an onion—you have to peel layer after layer; then somewhere the inner emptiness is found. In that emptiness the whole abides. When you dig a well, first you hit trash—old Dalda tins, broken cans, household rubbish, rags. For five to seven feet such things come up. Don’t turn back, saying, “Where is a water source here, only cans and rags!” Dig further: you will hit pebbles and stones. When man’s junk ends, stones appear. Don’t panic; keep digging. Then the stones end and you find dry earth. Don’t think, “Enough; let’s go back.” Dig on. Then you reach damp soil—know then the water source is near. But still potable water will not appear instantly; you have only met the first glimmerings of moisture.
So it is in the digging of meditation, in the inner journey. Dig more. Then dirty water appears—muddy. There will be sludge. But now you are nearing. Don’t panic: “What shall we do with mud? We came for water; we won’t drink mud!” Don’t worry. Dig on, dig on. You are coming close. Soon clear streams will appear.
And remember: as long as you keep digging, the mud will be stirred. This is the difference between meditation and samadhi. Meditation means digging. As long as you continue meditating, the mud will keep roiling. When you find yourself standing neck-deep in mud—water is there, but it is full of silt—then climb out of the well. Now wait. Sit silently. Let the mud slowly settle. It settles by itself; the particles are heavier than the water. But don’t think you should jump back in to remove the mud from inside; your very presence will keep it stirred. Up to the digging your effort is needed; then you must come out.
Therefore, when meditation and waiting join, samadhi flowers.
You ask: “Even with a living master present, in our country the dead are worshipped.”
It is not only in your country; it is everywhere. Worshipping the dead is convenient.
Consider: Two thousand years ago, had you walked with Christ, there was danger. Today there is no danger in being a Christian. Then, you could have been crucified. The night Jesus was arrested, all his disciples left him and fled. Who will take such a risk? Only one disciple followed behind. Jesus told him, “You too go.” He said, “Even if I lose my life, I will never leave you.” Jesus laughed, “Easy to say, hard to do. I tell you, before the cock crows you will have denied me three times.”
They seized Jesus and led him away. The night was dark; they carried torches. In the crowd they saw a stranger—Jesus’ disciple. They asked, “Who are you? We don’t recognize you. You are not a follower of Jesus, are you?” The disciple said, “No. Who is Jesus? I don’t even know him.” Jesus turned and looked back: “The cock has not yet crowed.” Three times, before the cock’s crow, in those few moments the disciple denied him: “Who is Jesus? I am a stranger here. You have torches; I joined to watch the spectacle.”
To walk with Jesus is to carry the cross on your shoulder. But once Jesus is gone, churches arise, statues are made, crosses are raised. Now what difficulty is there in believing in Jesus? Worship becomes very easy. The worshipper does not obey. Not a single teaching of Jesus is followed. Jesus said, “If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other.” Who does that? Jesus said, “God is love.” But who fought more wars and committed more violence than Christians? Who listens? Who obeys? Yet worship continues.
To walk with Buddha is to play with fire. Sitting with Buddha is not without danger. But what danger is there in worshipping a statue of Buddha? The idol is your purchase from the market; worship it if you wish, or not. Lock your door for a few days—the idol cannot complain, “I am thirsty, I am hungry.” With a statue you can behave exactly as you please. With Buddha you must be transformed. Buddha will not be in your fist; you will have to place yourself in Buddha’s hand. An idol is in your fist; you do with it as you like.
Don’t you see Hindus making Ganesha? They celebrate, make much noise, then carry him to the sea for immersion. Ganesha can do nothing. If you wish, worship; if you wish, drown him—your will prevails. Ganesha is not there; it is your toy. Drown the real Ganesha in the ocean, and he will catch you in his trunk and lay you flat—you will never dare go near the real Ganesha again. But the Ganeshas you make are of clay and paint: where you seat them, they sit; where you carry them, they go; shout, and they listen.
Worship of the dead is easy—only the dead are easy to worship. And this is so not only here; it is so everywhere. Man is the same everywhere. Drop the illusion that man differs from place to place. Politics has taught you great stupidities—that you are Indian, someone else is Chinese, someone German. Drop these foolishnesses. Who is German, who Chinese, who Indian? Man is simply man. There may be a difference of color. What is color? Do you know the difference in pigment between a white and a black man costs four annas? What a racket for four annas of color! Paint a white man black! It is only a matter of that much pigment. And you will be surprised: the black man is four annas richer, not the white. The white is lacking; the costly pigment is not in him. If anyone is at a loss, it is the white; the black is wealthy—four annas more!
Why make so much of such petty differences? Yet these petty differences have become so important for us. Drop this madness. People come to me and ask, “Why are there so many foreigners here?” Who is a foreigner? Whom are you calling foreign? I do not accept your political definitions. Who is foreign? The whole earth is one. Do you think that because you drew a line on a map—India/Pakistan—the earth was divided? The earth is indivisible. A strange thing: thirty years ago, one who lived in what is now Pakistan was a countryman; now he is a foreigner—the same man!
I have heard a story. At the time of Partition there was a mental asylum that straddled the new border. Where should it go? And no one was eager to take a madhouse anyway. Neither Hindus nor Muslims cared; neither Gandhi nor Jinnah worried. Yet it had to go somewhere. It was decided to ask the inmates where they wished to go. The mad are mad. Asked, they said, “We don’t want to go anywhere; we want to stay right here.” They were told a thousand times, “You will stay here, you are not going anywhere, but where do you want to go—India or Pakistan?” The inmates beat their heads: “We thought we were mad—you are mad! If we are not going anywhere and will stay right here, why should we ‘go’ to India or Pakistan? We will stay here.” They were told again and again, “You will remain right here, exactly as you are, in the same rooms—but where do you want to go?” Politicians must have arrived in their churidar pajamas and Gandhi caps, asking, “Where do you want to go?” At last the mad said, “We want to go nowhere. We will not enter this nonsense. We are fine.”
Finally, one solution: build a wall through the asylum—half in Pakistan, half in India. So they built a wall. The asylum is still there. Sometimes the inmates climb the wall and ask their friends on the other side, “Brother, isn’t this fun—you there, we here; you went to Pakistan, we to India! Nothing happened—only a wall in between. Now if you want to come here, you need a passport; if we want to come there, we need a passport. Without the wall it was all fun. Why did you raise the wall?”
Today if someone lives in Pakistan, he is no longer your friend; yesterday he was, today he is not.
The earth is one; there is no foreigner here. These are petty notions. Drop them. Man is simply man. The differences are superficial; at the foundation there is none. The same hatred, the same hostility, the same envy—and the day life changes, the same bliss, the same sat-chit-ananda. In darkness and ignorance there is hostility, hatred, hell; when awake, there is joy upon joy.
Do you think anyone has a monopoly on religion? Many here believe so. People tell me, “This country is a holy land,” as if all other lands are sinful. The earth is one; what holy land, what sinful land? Lands are not pious or impious; minds are.
Begin to see man as one—only then can man’s problems be solved. Otherwise they never are.
Imagine a world—and such a world is possible; man is so mad I am not speaking only of imagination—where you go to a doctor, he examines you, and says, “You have contracted Muslim cancer,” or “Hindu cancer,” or “Christian cancer.” Imagine a doctor saying, “You have Indian cancer—you need Indian medicine; you have Pakistani cancer—you need Pakistani medicine.” You would think him mad. If diseases were divided by nationality, and medicines too, human illness could never be cured. We know cancer is simply cancer; hatred is only hatred; ignorance is only ignorance—without adjectives. Illness is illness—and the remedy is one. But first see illness as one; if you divide it, the treatments will be divided, and from there the mess begins.
Look: science is one for the whole world. You cannot say, “This is a holy land; why should water boil at 100 degrees here? It should boil at 98.” Everywhere water boils at 100. In a holy land, at least this much grace from God should be there, that it boils two degrees sooner—so many saints and sages here, so many incarnations! Will there not be such a special concession?
No: water boils at 100 degrees—whether the land be holy or sinful; in hell too, water boils at 100, and in heaven too—whether a saint does the experiment or a sinner. Science is one. And understand well: if the outer science is one—even where multiplicity reigns—how can the inner science be many? Where the outer is one, the inner must be one, inevitably so, for within there is only the one. The day the earth drops its narrow definitions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Indian, Pakistani, Japanese—that day will be life’s great blessedness. Then we will resolve problems straightforwardly, at their root. Now we are entangled with leaves, quarrelling over foliage; we never reach the root.
My declaration is: man is one. And this—worshipping the dead while the living stands before you—is not your foolishness, misfortune, or degeneration. People also believe that the ancients were noble, realized, pure, religious, and modern man is sinful, of the dark age. You know nothing about ancient man. You have a few stories; from those you calculate. You know Buddha, and you imagine all were like Buddha. You know Rama, and you think all were like Rama—then where did Ravana come from? And if all were like Buddha, who threw stones at Buddha? Who set a mad elephant upon him? Who loosened boulders above him? Who gave him poison?
Man has always been the same. The difficulty is this: when this twentieth century is over—two thousand years from now—almost nothing will be remembered of the common lot; only a few names—Ramakrishna, Ramana, Krishnamurti. People will think: Ah, what a golden age! Man has always been like this. Only a few golden names remain; they do not make a society. A society of Buddhas has never been born. The truth is, we remember Buddhas for thousands of years precisely because they were unique, solitary. If there were many, who would remember? Our remembrance itself shows how rare they were and how opposed to the masses.
In a dark night, stars shine brightly; in a luminous night, not so much. The stars are the same; even in day they are still in the sky—where would they go, to Pakistan or to India? But in the sun’s light they disappear. The darker the night, the brighter the Buddha-star shines. Had there been a society where all were virtuous, how would Buddha’s star stand out? It would be like day—Buddha would be lost.
Five thousand years and we have not forgotten Krishna. Why? Krishna must have been like a single rose blooming among thousands of thorns; you cannot forget such a flower. If there were thousands of roses—if life were a field of roses—if a flute played on everyone’s lips, anklets of joy tinkled on everyone’s feet, songs burst from everyone’s throat—who would remember Krishna? If life danced in all, if the rasa were everywhere, why remember Krishna, and for what? His remembrance remains for this very reason. So do not think you live in the dark age.
A curious thing: the oldest books in the world say the same—the ancients were better. Not one book says, “People today are good.” The Vedas too praise the forefathers. Lao Tzu, twenty-five centuries ago, wrote how there was once an age of dharma on earth.
Ramarajya always lies in the past. Man has always looked back, because what is ugly fades and the beautiful keeps shining. Flowers remain, their fragrance remains; thorns die and dissolve into the soil. But there is a crowd of thorns. When you look at today, perhaps a lamp or two is lit; the rest are extinguished in endless rows. In those rows a single burning lamp is scarcely visible. Later, only that burning lamp will be remembered; the extinguished ones will be lost. Hence our wrong arithmetic. Man is just as he has been.
There are only two kinds of people—those asleep and those awake. The asleep are always in the dark age; the awake are always in the golden age. The moment you awaken, it is the golden age; as long as you sleep, it is the dark age. The person beside you may be in the golden age—if he is awake, living in awareness. On your other side someone may be in the dark age. It also happens that in the morning you arise in the golden age and by evening you have reached the dark. One moment golden, the next dark. When you are filled with anger—the dark age; when you are filled with compassion—the golden.
An emperor once visited a Zen master. “I have heard much of heaven and hell,” he said. “I have come to ask—what are heaven and hell? I do not want talk only; I want a demonstration.” The master was a playful fellow. “A demonstration? Have you looked at your face in a mirror? I’ve never seen such a filthy face. Flies are buzzing—have you bathed?” The emperor exploded, forgetting his philosophical query. He drew his sword; it rose, ready to fall. The master said, “See—this is hell.” The sword froze in midair; the blazing eyes, the rage, the insult, the thirst for revenge—and the master said, “Close your eyes and see: this is hell.” In a moment the hand slackened; the sword slipped back into its sheath; awareness returned—“What am I doing!” The anger left his face. The master laughed: “See—this is heaven.” Heaven and hell are not divided by time; they are states of mind. Many times a day you shuttle from heaven to hell and back, like freight cars being shunted. But habit blinds you to it.
Man has always been the same. If you must distinguish, there is only one distinction worth making: awareness. All other distinctions are futile. Only when you are filled with awareness can you draw near a living master. If you remain unconscious, the worship of the dead will continue. And those who worship the dead are themselves dead; those who gather around the living, in satsang, are alive.
All flowers are already at the feet of the divine. All the birds’ songs are prayers unto him. When the sun rises, it performs his aarti. But in your mind there is restlessness, a sense of guilt. You know you are not as you should be. Something needs to be done. Yet if you do the real thing, it is costly, a long journey, a difficult path. The real work hurts your vested interests. Do the real, and you cannot remain as you are: your anger must change, your greed must change, your lust must be transformed. You will have to change the attitudes of your mind, the style of your life.
Such a costly task you do not want. Such a hassle you do not want to take on. But you also don’t want to remain a culprit in your own eyes. You want to be able to tell yourself, “I did something!” If it doesn’t happen, then it was my misfortune—but it isn’t that I didn’t do anything; I did something!
So you look for cheap substitutes. You go to the temple and light a lamp. How will the lamp lit in the temple help? The lamp must be lit within. Lighting it inside requires long practice. Lighting it in the temple involves no difficulty. You offered flowers—will you offer the flowers that grow on trees? Grow flowers within! Become a flower yourself! When your own lotus blossoms, take that to offer to the divine—then you bring something real, a true offering.
But for your lotus to bloom, you will have to travel from lust to the divine; only then will your lotus open. You are not ready for such a journey. Nor are you ready to admit that you are doing nothing. So man devises little somethings to do—devices that allow the illusion of doing while nothing need truly be done. Thus a pseudo-religion is born—of worship, adoration, ritual.
Religion is practice—not worship, not adoration, not mere devotion. Religion is practice. And the laboratory of religion is within. Neither go to Kashi nor to Kaaba—if you must go anywhere, go within. That is the pilgrimage. If you need to take a dip, don’t look for Ganges outside. The outer Ganga is man’s contrivance; the inner Ganga is the stream the divine has made flow. Enter that!
But to go within brings many fears. The first fear: as you go in, you become alone. No wife, no son, no friends—no one will be with you. You will be alone. Aloneness feels frightening. And as you descend within, at first you encounter a frightening darkness. In the dark one feels afraid. Having stayed so long outside, your eyes have lost the capacity to recognize the inner light.
Notice it: on a blazing afternoon you walk miles and return home; the moment you enter, it seems dark. Your eyes have become accustomed to the glare. Rest a bit, relax, and the darkness begins to dissolve. There was no darkness; your eyes, habituated to great brightness, could not see this gentle, dim light. Now they adjust.
Exactly this happens inside. You have been going outward and outward; you are familiar with outer light. The inner light is very gentle, cool. The outer light is scorching, like noon. The inner light is like the interval when the sun has set but night has not yet come—twilight. Or dawn, when the night has gone and the last star is sinking—the interval. The inner light is dim, cool, not searing. And you haven’t gone in for lifetimes; your eyes will take time to adjust.
So the first time you go in, you will find darkness. Darkness frightens. And seeing darkness, you will think all the saints talk nonsense—they said inside is the Light of lights, as if a thousand suns rise together! Yet whenever you go in, you find darkness. You panic and return. Outside at least there is light!
Let me remind you of a Sufi story of Rabia, which I have told often and love very much. One evening people saw old Rabia searching for something outside her hut. The neighbors, who respected her but also thought her a bit eccentric, asked, “What is lost?” She said, “My needle. I was sewing; it fell.” They all began to search. Evening was descending, the light fading. A wise one asked, “Where exactly did it fall? The path is long. If we search everywhere, night will fall. If we know the precise spot, it will be easier.” Rabia laughed and said, “Don’t ask where it fell. It fell inside my house. But it is dark in there; how can one search in the dark? There is light outside, so I am searching here.” They stopped. “You are mad—you make us mad with you.” Rabia said, “No, I am only following your logic. You seek joy outside, though you lost it within. You look for God outside, though God is within. I am following your logic. Your reason is the same as mine: it seems light outside, dark within.”
When you first go in, you will find darkness—and that frightens. And what else is there with a living master, if not the journey within? In the presence of a living master only one thing happens: the inner journey begins—and there is terrifying darkness.
The seeker’s journey begins on the night of no moon, and it is fulfilled on the night of the full moon. But first one must face the new-moon dark.
Second: the enlightened ones say that as you go within, you will have the vision of the soul, the encounter with the divine. But that will not happen to you immediately. You will go in and encounter only your lust; no God will be found. You will find how many insects of lust crawl inside you; thousands of snakes and scorpions slither within—of anger, enmity, jealousy, destructiveness, hatred, repulsion. You will panic: What pus-filled world is this? I set out to experience God, to seek liberation, and I have found the address of hell.
You must first pass through hell—because that is what you have built up to now. God is also within. Those who said so did not lie; they spoke from knowing. I tell you, God is within—I say it as a witness, an eyewitness. But at the center is God. It will take time to reach the center. Between your circumference and the center is a long interval, a long distance—and you have stuffed that distance with hell. You created it. When anger arose, you repressed it; when hatred arose, you repressed it; when lust stirred, you repressed it. Those suppressed snakes and scorpions lie writhing within. When you go in, how will you not meet them? You must meet them.
The great Western thinker David Hume wrote: “Accepting Socrates’ dictum ‘Know thyself,’ I too went within. But I found nothing there except desires, cravings, memories, fantasies—worthless trash. I found no soul.” It won’t be found so quickly.
If one digs a well, do you think a water vein erupts at once? If water does not appear after a couple of feet and you go back saying, “There is no water within,” you make Hume’s mistake. However great a thinker he was, in my view he was hasty. He lacked patience.
When you dig a well, water exists everywhere; that is another matter—here it may be at fifty feet, there at five, elsewhere at five hundred. But there is no spot on earth where, if you keep digging, water is not found. Water is. Yet the depth varies with each person—because each person is unique. You have lived in your own way for lifetimes. You must dig through what you have accumulated. Another has accumulated something else; a third, something else. Everyone’s layers differ.
Man is like an onion—you have to peel layer after layer; then somewhere the inner emptiness is found. In that emptiness the whole abides. When you dig a well, first you hit trash—old Dalda tins, broken cans, household rubbish, rags. For five to seven feet such things come up. Don’t turn back, saying, “Where is a water source here, only cans and rags!” Dig further: you will hit pebbles and stones. When man’s junk ends, stones appear. Don’t panic; keep digging. Then the stones end and you find dry earth. Don’t think, “Enough; let’s go back.” Dig on. Then you reach damp soil—know then the water source is near. But still potable water will not appear instantly; you have only met the first glimmerings of moisture.
So it is in the digging of meditation, in the inner journey. Dig more. Then dirty water appears—muddy. There will be sludge. But now you are nearing. Don’t panic: “What shall we do with mud? We came for water; we won’t drink mud!” Don’t worry. Dig on, dig on. You are coming close. Soon clear streams will appear.
And remember: as long as you keep digging, the mud will be stirred. This is the difference between meditation and samadhi. Meditation means digging. As long as you continue meditating, the mud will keep roiling. When you find yourself standing neck-deep in mud—water is there, but it is full of silt—then climb out of the well. Now wait. Sit silently. Let the mud slowly settle. It settles by itself; the particles are heavier than the water. But don’t think you should jump back in to remove the mud from inside; your very presence will keep it stirred. Up to the digging your effort is needed; then you must come out.
Therefore, when meditation and waiting join, samadhi flowers.
You ask: “Even with a living master present, in our country the dead are worshipped.”
It is not only in your country; it is everywhere. Worshipping the dead is convenient.
Consider: Two thousand years ago, had you walked with Christ, there was danger. Today there is no danger in being a Christian. Then, you could have been crucified. The night Jesus was arrested, all his disciples left him and fled. Who will take such a risk? Only one disciple followed behind. Jesus told him, “You too go.” He said, “Even if I lose my life, I will never leave you.” Jesus laughed, “Easy to say, hard to do. I tell you, before the cock crows you will have denied me three times.”
They seized Jesus and led him away. The night was dark; they carried torches. In the crowd they saw a stranger—Jesus’ disciple. They asked, “Who are you? We don’t recognize you. You are not a follower of Jesus, are you?” The disciple said, “No. Who is Jesus? I don’t even know him.” Jesus turned and looked back: “The cock has not yet crowed.” Three times, before the cock’s crow, in those few moments the disciple denied him: “Who is Jesus? I am a stranger here. You have torches; I joined to watch the spectacle.”
To walk with Jesus is to carry the cross on your shoulder. But once Jesus is gone, churches arise, statues are made, crosses are raised. Now what difficulty is there in believing in Jesus? Worship becomes very easy. The worshipper does not obey. Not a single teaching of Jesus is followed. Jesus said, “If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other.” Who does that? Jesus said, “God is love.” But who fought more wars and committed more violence than Christians? Who listens? Who obeys? Yet worship continues.
To walk with Buddha is to play with fire. Sitting with Buddha is not without danger. But what danger is there in worshipping a statue of Buddha? The idol is your purchase from the market; worship it if you wish, or not. Lock your door for a few days—the idol cannot complain, “I am thirsty, I am hungry.” With a statue you can behave exactly as you please. With Buddha you must be transformed. Buddha will not be in your fist; you will have to place yourself in Buddha’s hand. An idol is in your fist; you do with it as you like.
Don’t you see Hindus making Ganesha? They celebrate, make much noise, then carry him to the sea for immersion. Ganesha can do nothing. If you wish, worship; if you wish, drown him—your will prevails. Ganesha is not there; it is your toy. Drown the real Ganesha in the ocean, and he will catch you in his trunk and lay you flat—you will never dare go near the real Ganesha again. But the Ganeshas you make are of clay and paint: where you seat them, they sit; where you carry them, they go; shout, and they listen.
Worship of the dead is easy—only the dead are easy to worship. And this is so not only here; it is so everywhere. Man is the same everywhere. Drop the illusion that man differs from place to place. Politics has taught you great stupidities—that you are Indian, someone else is Chinese, someone German. Drop these foolishnesses. Who is German, who Chinese, who Indian? Man is simply man. There may be a difference of color. What is color? Do you know the difference in pigment between a white and a black man costs four annas? What a racket for four annas of color! Paint a white man black! It is only a matter of that much pigment. And you will be surprised: the black man is four annas richer, not the white. The white is lacking; the costly pigment is not in him. If anyone is at a loss, it is the white; the black is wealthy—four annas more!
Why make so much of such petty differences? Yet these petty differences have become so important for us. Drop this madness. People come to me and ask, “Why are there so many foreigners here?” Who is a foreigner? Whom are you calling foreign? I do not accept your political definitions. Who is foreign? The whole earth is one. Do you think that because you drew a line on a map—India/Pakistan—the earth was divided? The earth is indivisible. A strange thing: thirty years ago, one who lived in what is now Pakistan was a countryman; now he is a foreigner—the same man!
I have heard a story. At the time of Partition there was a mental asylum that straddled the new border. Where should it go? And no one was eager to take a madhouse anyway. Neither Hindus nor Muslims cared; neither Gandhi nor Jinnah worried. Yet it had to go somewhere. It was decided to ask the inmates where they wished to go. The mad are mad. Asked, they said, “We don’t want to go anywhere; we want to stay right here.” They were told a thousand times, “You will stay here, you are not going anywhere, but where do you want to go—India or Pakistan?” The inmates beat their heads: “We thought we were mad—you are mad! If we are not going anywhere and will stay right here, why should we ‘go’ to India or Pakistan? We will stay here.” They were told again and again, “You will remain right here, exactly as you are, in the same rooms—but where do you want to go?” Politicians must have arrived in their churidar pajamas and Gandhi caps, asking, “Where do you want to go?” At last the mad said, “We want to go nowhere. We will not enter this nonsense. We are fine.”
Finally, one solution: build a wall through the asylum—half in Pakistan, half in India. So they built a wall. The asylum is still there. Sometimes the inmates climb the wall and ask their friends on the other side, “Brother, isn’t this fun—you there, we here; you went to Pakistan, we to India! Nothing happened—only a wall in between. Now if you want to come here, you need a passport; if we want to come there, we need a passport. Without the wall it was all fun. Why did you raise the wall?”
Today if someone lives in Pakistan, he is no longer your friend; yesterday he was, today he is not.
The earth is one; there is no foreigner here. These are petty notions. Drop them. Man is simply man. The differences are superficial; at the foundation there is none. The same hatred, the same hostility, the same envy—and the day life changes, the same bliss, the same sat-chit-ananda. In darkness and ignorance there is hostility, hatred, hell; when awake, there is joy upon joy.
Do you think anyone has a monopoly on religion? Many here believe so. People tell me, “This country is a holy land,” as if all other lands are sinful. The earth is one; what holy land, what sinful land? Lands are not pious or impious; minds are.
Begin to see man as one—only then can man’s problems be solved. Otherwise they never are.
Imagine a world—and such a world is possible; man is so mad I am not speaking only of imagination—where you go to a doctor, he examines you, and says, “You have contracted Muslim cancer,” or “Hindu cancer,” or “Christian cancer.” Imagine a doctor saying, “You have Indian cancer—you need Indian medicine; you have Pakistani cancer—you need Pakistani medicine.” You would think him mad. If diseases were divided by nationality, and medicines too, human illness could never be cured. We know cancer is simply cancer; hatred is only hatred; ignorance is only ignorance—without adjectives. Illness is illness—and the remedy is one. But first see illness as one; if you divide it, the treatments will be divided, and from there the mess begins.
Look: science is one for the whole world. You cannot say, “This is a holy land; why should water boil at 100 degrees here? It should boil at 98.” Everywhere water boils at 100. In a holy land, at least this much grace from God should be there, that it boils two degrees sooner—so many saints and sages here, so many incarnations! Will there not be such a special concession?
No: water boils at 100 degrees—whether the land be holy or sinful; in hell too, water boils at 100, and in heaven too—whether a saint does the experiment or a sinner. Science is one. And understand well: if the outer science is one—even where multiplicity reigns—how can the inner science be many? Where the outer is one, the inner must be one, inevitably so, for within there is only the one. The day the earth drops its narrow definitions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Indian, Pakistani, Japanese—that day will be life’s great blessedness. Then we will resolve problems straightforwardly, at their root. Now we are entangled with leaves, quarrelling over foliage; we never reach the root.
My declaration is: man is one. And this—worshipping the dead while the living stands before you—is not your foolishness, misfortune, or degeneration. People also believe that the ancients were noble, realized, pure, religious, and modern man is sinful, of the dark age. You know nothing about ancient man. You have a few stories; from those you calculate. You know Buddha, and you imagine all were like Buddha. You know Rama, and you think all were like Rama—then where did Ravana come from? And if all were like Buddha, who threw stones at Buddha? Who set a mad elephant upon him? Who loosened boulders above him? Who gave him poison?
Man has always been the same. The difficulty is this: when this twentieth century is over—two thousand years from now—almost nothing will be remembered of the common lot; only a few names—Ramakrishna, Ramana, Krishnamurti. People will think: Ah, what a golden age! Man has always been like this. Only a few golden names remain; they do not make a society. A society of Buddhas has never been born. The truth is, we remember Buddhas for thousands of years precisely because they were unique, solitary. If there were many, who would remember? Our remembrance itself shows how rare they were and how opposed to the masses.
In a dark night, stars shine brightly; in a luminous night, not so much. The stars are the same; even in day they are still in the sky—where would they go, to Pakistan or to India? But in the sun’s light they disappear. The darker the night, the brighter the Buddha-star shines. Had there been a society where all were virtuous, how would Buddha’s star stand out? It would be like day—Buddha would be lost.
Five thousand years and we have not forgotten Krishna. Why? Krishna must have been like a single rose blooming among thousands of thorns; you cannot forget such a flower. If there were thousands of roses—if life were a field of roses—if a flute played on everyone’s lips, anklets of joy tinkled on everyone’s feet, songs burst from everyone’s throat—who would remember Krishna? If life danced in all, if the rasa were everywhere, why remember Krishna, and for what? His remembrance remains for this very reason. So do not think you live in the dark age.
A curious thing: the oldest books in the world say the same—the ancients were better. Not one book says, “People today are good.” The Vedas too praise the forefathers. Lao Tzu, twenty-five centuries ago, wrote how there was once an age of dharma on earth.
Ramarajya always lies in the past. Man has always looked back, because what is ugly fades and the beautiful keeps shining. Flowers remain, their fragrance remains; thorns die and dissolve into the soil. But there is a crowd of thorns. When you look at today, perhaps a lamp or two is lit; the rest are extinguished in endless rows. In those rows a single burning lamp is scarcely visible. Later, only that burning lamp will be remembered; the extinguished ones will be lost. Hence our wrong arithmetic. Man is just as he has been.
There are only two kinds of people—those asleep and those awake. The asleep are always in the dark age; the awake are always in the golden age. The moment you awaken, it is the golden age; as long as you sleep, it is the dark age. The person beside you may be in the golden age—if he is awake, living in awareness. On your other side someone may be in the dark age. It also happens that in the morning you arise in the golden age and by evening you have reached the dark. One moment golden, the next dark. When you are filled with anger—the dark age; when you are filled with compassion—the golden.
An emperor once visited a Zen master. “I have heard much of heaven and hell,” he said. “I have come to ask—what are heaven and hell? I do not want talk only; I want a demonstration.” The master was a playful fellow. “A demonstration? Have you looked at your face in a mirror? I’ve never seen such a filthy face. Flies are buzzing—have you bathed?” The emperor exploded, forgetting his philosophical query. He drew his sword; it rose, ready to fall. The master said, “See—this is hell.” The sword froze in midair; the blazing eyes, the rage, the insult, the thirst for revenge—and the master said, “Close your eyes and see: this is hell.” In a moment the hand slackened; the sword slipped back into its sheath; awareness returned—“What am I doing!” The anger left his face. The master laughed: “See—this is heaven.” Heaven and hell are not divided by time; they are states of mind. Many times a day you shuttle from heaven to hell and back, like freight cars being shunted. But habit blinds you to it.
Man has always been the same. If you must distinguish, there is only one distinction worth making: awareness. All other distinctions are futile. Only when you are filled with awareness can you draw near a living master. If you remain unconscious, the worship of the dead will continue. And those who worship the dead are themselves dead; those who gather around the living, in satsang, are alive.
Second question:
Osho, I cannot bring myself to have faith in God. Then what is the remedy for me?
Osho, I cannot bring myself to have faith in God. Then what is the remedy for me?
Then why are you asking for a remedy? If there is no faith in the destination, why ask for the path? Faith will be there—somewhere hidden in your innermost being, lying like a seed. That very seed is searching for a way to sprout.
Your intellect cannot have faith—true; but your heart wants to have faith. So your question carries a contradiction. First you say, “I cannot bring myself to have faith in God.” Who is speaking? That is your head speaking. Then you ask, “Then what is the remedy for me?” That is your heart asking. In this small question your dual way, your conflict, your duality are revealed. If there is no God at all, what need is there of a remedy? The matter ends there. No—but I have not found a single person in my life who, at some level or another, does not trust in God. Even the most confirmed atheist has faith in his heart. In fact, to deny that very faith he becomes an atheist. He gathers a thousand arguments that there is no God. But if there is no God, why gather arguments?
If there is no table in my room, I don’t sit down to collect arguments to write a book proving there is no table in my room. If it isn’t there, it isn’t there—the matter is finished. If today the sun did not rise—the matter is finished. What is there to argue about? If it is raining today—it is raining.
But the atheist spends his whole life at it. Often it so happens that the theist gives only a little time—he runs in, bangs his head in a temple, and runs out. He has found a cheap trick to avoid God: “Look, remember, I did go to the temple, I did bow my head, I did offer flowers.” He runs—and conveniently forgets. The atheist remains entangled—twenty-four hours! The atheist spends more energy on God than the theist does. What is the matter? He thinks of one thing his whole life.
An atheist once came to me. He said, “For thirty years I have been continuously trying to prove that God does not exist.” I said, “This is too much! If it takes thirty years to prove He exists, even if He didn’t, by now you would have proved Him—or made Him up, created Him. Thirty years! Half a life spent proving that God is not. When will you live?”
When that man came he was around sixty. Your life has gone like this. Just consider what stupidity you have committed: you poured your life out upon a ‘no’! If He wasn’t, the matter was finished—not worth spending even a single moment on. But if you spent thirty years, it reveals something about your psychology: deep within you is the seed of faith. You want God to be—but your intellect does not want to accept, because to accept God you have to deny your intellect.
There is only one hindrance in accepting God: the ego must die. If God is, then I am not. That is the obstacle. If God is, then I must vanish. If God is not, then I am. The two cannot coexist.
God means the Whole, the ocean. Ego means a tiny wave risen in the ocean. The wave wants to prove there is no ocean, only I am. For if the ocean is, what worth is a wave? A wave is momentary; risen now, gone now.
In the urge to save oneself, atheism is born. Atheism has nothing to do with God; it is the protection of the ego, armor for the ego, a shield for the ego. If there is no God, the ego can grow in perfect ease. If God is, I will have to bow; if God is, I will have to bend at some feet. That is why we are unwilling to accept God. Who wants to bow? No one wants to. The day you are ready to bow, that very day God is.
Now you ask, “I have no faith; then what is the remedy for me?” You may not have faith; sit in the company of those who do. There is no other remedy. You may not know; stay close to those who know. And keep one thing in mind: if you do not know whether God is or is not, don’t cling to ‘no’ either, because that too you do not know. Keep yourself open. You have no faith—fine; but don’t make it disbelief. There is a difference.
He who says, “God is”—that is faith. He who says, “God is not”—that is disbelief. And both may be false. Generally both are false. The theist does not know He is; the atheist does not know He is not. Remain a seeker! Say, “I don’t know. But I am willing—if He is, I am willing to know; if He is, I am willing to search. I will keep my eyes open. I will not close them.”
Do not become an ostrich that buries its head in the sand. Keep your eyes open. And I tell you, if the eyes remain open, faith will arise by itself. With open eyes there is no way to avoid faith. If you keep looking with open eyes, you will be amazed—God is present all around. It is He who is green in the trees, He who is rippling in the rivers. He who shines in the stars. He who speaks in people. He is in you, in your neighbor too. And the easiest way to keep the eyes open: befriend one whose eyes are open. Sant Sundardas called this satsang—the company of the saints.
Under the dark, dense shade of a tree
there is a little temple,
in the temple a small idol,
before the idol
a little lamp burns—
without your knowing, it feels so good;
from who-knows-what distances
of space and time some
ancient imprint awakens!
O dull mind, bow down!
If there is no God,
then at least to this stone lying here—take it as such—
bow to the silent faith of some unknown one
that has been kindled here!
Someone comes to the temple and lights a lamp. You may not trust in God. But the lamp—doesn’t its flame in the dark feel good? You may not trust in God—doesn’t this hush of the temple feel good? Doesn’t this peace feel good? Doesn’t this cleanliness feel good? Can you trust at least this much? Then bow to it. Bow to the faith of the one who lit the lamp. Bow to the shining light of this lamp. Bow to the hush and peace of this temple. Leave God aside!
I told you: those who do not want to bow deny God. Those who are willing to bow—before them God appears. Learn to bow, in any way! Learn the art of bending somewhere. Wherever something vast appears to you—bow! Seeing the snowclad peaks of the Himalayas—bow! If even before the snowclad Himalayas you do not feel your knees bend within, you are not a human being. Go into the deep forest—the green of the trees, the earthy fragrance rising from the soil—if you do not feel, “Let me fall on my knees,” then you are not human. There is no poetry in your life; you have no heart that beats. You are a machine, a mechanism.
Seeing the sky filled with stars, have you never felt like folding your hands? Then there is no awareness within you. You have no sense of beauty. Dance when the trees dance in the winds! Look, it is raining now. Stand there naked under the open sky someday. Let the rain fall. Dance! Don’t bring up the topic of God. What have you to do with God? The falling drops of rain are bliss in themselves. Leave God aside. But in that very dance you will begin to glimpse God.
I am not telling you that only if there is God can one dance. One can dance—there are a thousand excuses. Dance in love. Dance on seeing a beautiful person. Dance upon seeing eyes like a deep lake. Learn to be speechless. Learn to be amazed. He who knows how to be amazed cannot remain far from God for long. Learn to be wonderstruck. Where wonder is alive, God comes on His own—so silently that even the sound of His footsteps is not heard.
I too did not set out believing in God; therefore I can reassure you—there is no need to believe in God. I set out as an atheist. “There is no God”—I felt that more strongly than that there is. But I kept my eyes open. And one thing was clear to me from the beginning: if He is not, why worry about Him? Why think about Him at all? Why walk in that direction?
If there is no God—leave religion; but poetry is! Does some poem tickle your heart? Music is! When the strings of the veena are touched, does some Malhar rise within you or not? When someone plays the flute, does something ache within or not? When the cuckoo calls, does something stir within you or not? If there is no God—the matter is finished; temples and mosques are not for you. But this nature is His temple.
In my reckoning, wonder is the very first step toward the divine—not faith. For faith will happen when the experience happens. Without experience, what you will have is belief—false, two-penny. Belief is of no worth. Faith is precious; belief has no value. Belief is borrowed—your father believed, so you believed. Behind belief is fear—lest you rot in hell. Behind belief is greed—believe and you will get a place in paradise. Belief is trickery, man’s politics. Faith is a far bigger thing. Faith has nothing to do with belief; they are opposites.
Often the believer never becomes faithful; he never seeks—he sits having assumed. Then who is faithful? The one in whom the capacity to be wonderstruck remains; who, like a small child, dissolves in astonishment.
Look again closely at small children. A butterfly flies and the child runs after it—forgetting all duties. You may shout that homework lies undone, the child is bewitched by the butterfly. The colors of the butterfly have surrounded him. A flower blooms and the child stops dead. A bird begins to sing and the child’s ears become attentive. In school the teacher says, “What are you attending to outside? Look here at the blackboard.” And outside the cuckoo is calling!
In my own school days I often spent time outside. The teacher, annoyed with me, would put me out: “Stand outside.” But I was happy to stand outside—because outside was truly very beautiful. I never took it as punishment; I took it as a reward. One teacher used to send me out continuously, so before entering the class I would ask him, “If you are going to send me out anyway, may I stay outside from the start?”
Childlike wonder is needed; then faith will ripen by itself. Faith is the ultimate fruit of wonder. Where wonder remains, love flows—everywhere! The clouds rising in the sky call to that love. The waves rising in the ocean call to that love. God continuously sends invitations to that love—writes you letters of love in countless ways. But only those receive them whose sense of wonder is alive. Those in whom wonder has died—their hearts become inert. Then only logic remains. Then calculation remains. Then ledgers remain. Then their lives are worth two pennies. They gather wealth, gather status—and gain nothing. They die empty. Hollow within—like empty Dalda tins—no Dalda inside, and even the tins are dented. For when something is empty, how long can it remain without collapsing?
A tiny atom there is,
that if you try to master—it will not be mastered;
a wild cataract of force there is,
that if you try to dam—it will not be dammed.
Where is rest?—there is only toil.
A brief moment there is
that if you try to stop—it will not stop;
arrow after arrow flies,
yet the quiver of Time—never runs out.
There is only a ceaseless flow, a sequence unbroken.
But amid the chain of labors
and the hasp of sequences
there are a few moments of love—
that do not pass away.
These drops of tears are such oceans
that never run dry.
Passing and finishing are but a delusion.
Where is rest?—there is only toil.
There is only a ceaseless flow, a sequence unbroken.
Passing and finishing are but a delusion.
In the life where there is no love, there is only passing and finishing, coming and going, birth and death. Life does not happen. Life happens only where there is love, where there are wonderstruck eyes, where there is an astonished heart—startled, like a child!
The sliding drop of dew on the grass is enough—to fill you with faith.
The newborn sprout breaking through the earth is enough—to fill you with faith.
There is no shortage of supports for faith. If there is a lack, it is in your capacity for wonder. And man’s greatest stupidity is that he becomes ‘knowledgeable.’ The more ‘knowing’ he becomes, the more wonder dies. Then he knows everything. Ask him anything—he has an answer.
Find some places where you become answerless. From there faith will come. Love is such a place—from where faith wells up. For love does not fit into knowledge. Love has not been known till today. People have lived it, people have experienced it; but it has not been known. No one has even been able to define what love is. If your life is nothing but mathematics, then where is rest?—there is only toil. And if your life is all race—
A brief moment there is
that if you try to stop—it will not stop;
arrow after arrow flies,
yet the quiver of Time—never runs out.
There is only a ceaseless flow, a sequence unbroken.
Then you are a chain of moments. One moment goes, another comes. One birth goes, another comes. You are merely a link of moments; you are only time—a current of time. But there is no meaning in your life. A meaningless sequence—
But amid the chain of labors
and the hasp of sequences
there are a few moments of love—
that do not pass away.
These drops of tears are such oceans
that never run dry.
Passing and finishing are but a delusion.
Only in moments of love does the proof of God come. Logic does not give proof—love gives proof. Love. Love anyone. Love your wife, love your husband. Love your children—but love!
People come to me here. They say, “What kind of ashram is this, that people are seen embracing one another, hugging one another!” In their view, an ashram means—dry, dead people sitting under trees. As if they have already died; nothing is left within them. Just sitting, waiting for God to call them to paradise. And what will God do with them in paradise? Think a little! Is paradise to be ruined? Is the sparkle of paradise to be dulled? If all your ‘great souls’ reach paradise, paradise will be in a bad way. Someone will spread thorns there and lie down; someone will light a sacred fire; someone will smear himself with ash; someone will stand on his head in shirshasana; someone will begin yogasanas; someone will start fasting; someone will dry up his body.
Gather all your so-called saints together and you will have Shiva’s wedding procession. Shiva somehow tolerates them—thanks to hemp; otherwise even he could not. “Take a hit, take a hit!” He keeps smoking—perhaps only to endure this procession; what a procession—one weirder than the other, unhealthy, sick, deranged…
People come here and are amazed. Here, love is prayer. Here, living wonderstruck like small children is our discipline. And I am against no form of love, because in my vision all loves are parts of the same rainbow. The love of the body is also a means leading toward love of God—the first step, the first rung.
Love has great heights, but you must begin where you are. If you are a husband, love your wife. If you are a wife, love your husband. Love a friend. Love your son. Love your mother. Love! And love so deeply, so wildly, that when you love your son, your love passes beyond his body and begins to see his soul—so transparent, so deep that it enters his inmost core. In your son you will find God. In your wife you will find God. In your husband you will find God. Until you find Him in love, you will not find Him in stones. And he who finds Him in love—finds Him even in stones. If He can be found in the body—the body is but clay, dust—then He can be found in stone as well.
You ask: “I cannot bring myself to have faith in God.”
Leave God aside! “Then what is the remedy for me?”
Cultivate wonder! Shake off your ‘knowledge’!
D. H. Lawrence was walking in a garden. A small child was with him. Lawrence is among the significant figures of this century—one of those few who are never understood; one of those few whom people always misunderstand. The child—as children do; only children can ask such marvelous questions; old people ask trash, their questions are borrowed from books—looked around in amazement—green everywhere! He asked Lawrence, “Listen, you are a great poet, aren’t you? Will you answer one thing? Why are the trees green? Why are the trees green?”
Now what answer can you give? Fortunately Lawrence was a poet. Fortunately he was not a scientist, not a professor, not a pundit—otherwise pundits never let go. He would have said, “Because of chlorophyll the trees are green.” The matter would have ended—and ended badly. And if the child had stopped there, the matter would have ended. Children usually do not stop. If you say “because of chlorophyll,” the child will ask, “Why is chlorophyll green?” If he is truly a child, he won’t stop so soon.
Lawrence stood a while; he looked at the trees, looked at the child, and said, “Brother, the trees are green—because they are green.” The child said, “That’s right. Absolutely right. Trees are green because they are green.”
This is no answer—and yet it is the only answer! Within it is a sense of wonder, an acceptance of mystery. Trees are green because they are green!
The day you look at the world with a wonderstruck heart, slowly—at some unknown moment—without even knocking at the door, faith will enter your heart, and you will not even know when it happened.
Your intellect cannot have faith—true; but your heart wants to have faith. So your question carries a contradiction. First you say, “I cannot bring myself to have faith in God.” Who is speaking? That is your head speaking. Then you ask, “Then what is the remedy for me?” That is your heart asking. In this small question your dual way, your conflict, your duality are revealed. If there is no God at all, what need is there of a remedy? The matter ends there. No—but I have not found a single person in my life who, at some level or another, does not trust in God. Even the most confirmed atheist has faith in his heart. In fact, to deny that very faith he becomes an atheist. He gathers a thousand arguments that there is no God. But if there is no God, why gather arguments?
If there is no table in my room, I don’t sit down to collect arguments to write a book proving there is no table in my room. If it isn’t there, it isn’t there—the matter is finished. If today the sun did not rise—the matter is finished. What is there to argue about? If it is raining today—it is raining.
But the atheist spends his whole life at it. Often it so happens that the theist gives only a little time—he runs in, bangs his head in a temple, and runs out. He has found a cheap trick to avoid God: “Look, remember, I did go to the temple, I did bow my head, I did offer flowers.” He runs—and conveniently forgets. The atheist remains entangled—twenty-four hours! The atheist spends more energy on God than the theist does. What is the matter? He thinks of one thing his whole life.
An atheist once came to me. He said, “For thirty years I have been continuously trying to prove that God does not exist.” I said, “This is too much! If it takes thirty years to prove He exists, even if He didn’t, by now you would have proved Him—or made Him up, created Him. Thirty years! Half a life spent proving that God is not. When will you live?”
When that man came he was around sixty. Your life has gone like this. Just consider what stupidity you have committed: you poured your life out upon a ‘no’! If He wasn’t, the matter was finished—not worth spending even a single moment on. But if you spent thirty years, it reveals something about your psychology: deep within you is the seed of faith. You want God to be—but your intellect does not want to accept, because to accept God you have to deny your intellect.
There is only one hindrance in accepting God: the ego must die. If God is, then I am not. That is the obstacle. If God is, then I must vanish. If God is not, then I am. The two cannot coexist.
God means the Whole, the ocean. Ego means a tiny wave risen in the ocean. The wave wants to prove there is no ocean, only I am. For if the ocean is, what worth is a wave? A wave is momentary; risen now, gone now.
In the urge to save oneself, atheism is born. Atheism has nothing to do with God; it is the protection of the ego, armor for the ego, a shield for the ego. If there is no God, the ego can grow in perfect ease. If God is, I will have to bow; if God is, I will have to bend at some feet. That is why we are unwilling to accept God. Who wants to bow? No one wants to. The day you are ready to bow, that very day God is.
Now you ask, “I have no faith; then what is the remedy for me?” You may not have faith; sit in the company of those who do. There is no other remedy. You may not know; stay close to those who know. And keep one thing in mind: if you do not know whether God is or is not, don’t cling to ‘no’ either, because that too you do not know. Keep yourself open. You have no faith—fine; but don’t make it disbelief. There is a difference.
He who says, “God is”—that is faith. He who says, “God is not”—that is disbelief. And both may be false. Generally both are false. The theist does not know He is; the atheist does not know He is not. Remain a seeker! Say, “I don’t know. But I am willing—if He is, I am willing to know; if He is, I am willing to search. I will keep my eyes open. I will not close them.”
Do not become an ostrich that buries its head in the sand. Keep your eyes open. And I tell you, if the eyes remain open, faith will arise by itself. With open eyes there is no way to avoid faith. If you keep looking with open eyes, you will be amazed—God is present all around. It is He who is green in the trees, He who is rippling in the rivers. He who shines in the stars. He who speaks in people. He is in you, in your neighbor too. And the easiest way to keep the eyes open: befriend one whose eyes are open. Sant Sundardas called this satsang—the company of the saints.
Under the dark, dense shade of a tree
there is a little temple,
in the temple a small idol,
before the idol
a little lamp burns—
without your knowing, it feels so good;
from who-knows-what distances
of space and time some
ancient imprint awakens!
O dull mind, bow down!
If there is no God,
then at least to this stone lying here—take it as such—
bow to the silent faith of some unknown one
that has been kindled here!
Someone comes to the temple and lights a lamp. You may not trust in God. But the lamp—doesn’t its flame in the dark feel good? You may not trust in God—doesn’t this hush of the temple feel good? Doesn’t this peace feel good? Doesn’t this cleanliness feel good? Can you trust at least this much? Then bow to it. Bow to the faith of the one who lit the lamp. Bow to the shining light of this lamp. Bow to the hush and peace of this temple. Leave God aside!
I told you: those who do not want to bow deny God. Those who are willing to bow—before them God appears. Learn to bow, in any way! Learn the art of bending somewhere. Wherever something vast appears to you—bow! Seeing the snowclad peaks of the Himalayas—bow! If even before the snowclad Himalayas you do not feel your knees bend within, you are not a human being. Go into the deep forest—the green of the trees, the earthy fragrance rising from the soil—if you do not feel, “Let me fall on my knees,” then you are not human. There is no poetry in your life; you have no heart that beats. You are a machine, a mechanism.
Seeing the sky filled with stars, have you never felt like folding your hands? Then there is no awareness within you. You have no sense of beauty. Dance when the trees dance in the winds! Look, it is raining now. Stand there naked under the open sky someday. Let the rain fall. Dance! Don’t bring up the topic of God. What have you to do with God? The falling drops of rain are bliss in themselves. Leave God aside. But in that very dance you will begin to glimpse God.
I am not telling you that only if there is God can one dance. One can dance—there are a thousand excuses. Dance in love. Dance on seeing a beautiful person. Dance upon seeing eyes like a deep lake. Learn to be speechless. Learn to be amazed. He who knows how to be amazed cannot remain far from God for long. Learn to be wonderstruck. Where wonder is alive, God comes on His own—so silently that even the sound of His footsteps is not heard.
I too did not set out believing in God; therefore I can reassure you—there is no need to believe in God. I set out as an atheist. “There is no God”—I felt that more strongly than that there is. But I kept my eyes open. And one thing was clear to me from the beginning: if He is not, why worry about Him? Why think about Him at all? Why walk in that direction?
If there is no God—leave religion; but poetry is! Does some poem tickle your heart? Music is! When the strings of the veena are touched, does some Malhar rise within you or not? When someone plays the flute, does something ache within or not? When the cuckoo calls, does something stir within you or not? If there is no God—the matter is finished; temples and mosques are not for you. But this nature is His temple.
In my reckoning, wonder is the very first step toward the divine—not faith. For faith will happen when the experience happens. Without experience, what you will have is belief—false, two-penny. Belief is of no worth. Faith is precious; belief has no value. Belief is borrowed—your father believed, so you believed. Behind belief is fear—lest you rot in hell. Behind belief is greed—believe and you will get a place in paradise. Belief is trickery, man’s politics. Faith is a far bigger thing. Faith has nothing to do with belief; they are opposites.
Often the believer never becomes faithful; he never seeks—he sits having assumed. Then who is faithful? The one in whom the capacity to be wonderstruck remains; who, like a small child, dissolves in astonishment.
Look again closely at small children. A butterfly flies and the child runs after it—forgetting all duties. You may shout that homework lies undone, the child is bewitched by the butterfly. The colors of the butterfly have surrounded him. A flower blooms and the child stops dead. A bird begins to sing and the child’s ears become attentive. In school the teacher says, “What are you attending to outside? Look here at the blackboard.” And outside the cuckoo is calling!
In my own school days I often spent time outside. The teacher, annoyed with me, would put me out: “Stand outside.” But I was happy to stand outside—because outside was truly very beautiful. I never took it as punishment; I took it as a reward. One teacher used to send me out continuously, so before entering the class I would ask him, “If you are going to send me out anyway, may I stay outside from the start?”
Childlike wonder is needed; then faith will ripen by itself. Faith is the ultimate fruit of wonder. Where wonder remains, love flows—everywhere! The clouds rising in the sky call to that love. The waves rising in the ocean call to that love. God continuously sends invitations to that love—writes you letters of love in countless ways. But only those receive them whose sense of wonder is alive. Those in whom wonder has died—their hearts become inert. Then only logic remains. Then calculation remains. Then ledgers remain. Then their lives are worth two pennies. They gather wealth, gather status—and gain nothing. They die empty. Hollow within—like empty Dalda tins—no Dalda inside, and even the tins are dented. For when something is empty, how long can it remain without collapsing?
A tiny atom there is,
that if you try to master—it will not be mastered;
a wild cataract of force there is,
that if you try to dam—it will not be dammed.
Where is rest?—there is only toil.
A brief moment there is
that if you try to stop—it will not stop;
arrow after arrow flies,
yet the quiver of Time—never runs out.
There is only a ceaseless flow, a sequence unbroken.
But amid the chain of labors
and the hasp of sequences
there are a few moments of love—
that do not pass away.
These drops of tears are such oceans
that never run dry.
Passing and finishing are but a delusion.
Where is rest?—there is only toil.
There is only a ceaseless flow, a sequence unbroken.
Passing and finishing are but a delusion.
In the life where there is no love, there is only passing and finishing, coming and going, birth and death. Life does not happen. Life happens only where there is love, where there are wonderstruck eyes, where there is an astonished heart—startled, like a child!
The sliding drop of dew on the grass is enough—to fill you with faith.
The newborn sprout breaking through the earth is enough—to fill you with faith.
There is no shortage of supports for faith. If there is a lack, it is in your capacity for wonder. And man’s greatest stupidity is that he becomes ‘knowledgeable.’ The more ‘knowing’ he becomes, the more wonder dies. Then he knows everything. Ask him anything—he has an answer.
Find some places where you become answerless. From there faith will come. Love is such a place—from where faith wells up. For love does not fit into knowledge. Love has not been known till today. People have lived it, people have experienced it; but it has not been known. No one has even been able to define what love is. If your life is nothing but mathematics, then where is rest?—there is only toil. And if your life is all race—
A brief moment there is
that if you try to stop—it will not stop;
arrow after arrow flies,
yet the quiver of Time—never runs out.
There is only a ceaseless flow, a sequence unbroken.
Then you are a chain of moments. One moment goes, another comes. One birth goes, another comes. You are merely a link of moments; you are only time—a current of time. But there is no meaning in your life. A meaningless sequence—
But amid the chain of labors
and the hasp of sequences
there are a few moments of love—
that do not pass away.
These drops of tears are such oceans
that never run dry.
Passing and finishing are but a delusion.
Only in moments of love does the proof of God come. Logic does not give proof—love gives proof. Love. Love anyone. Love your wife, love your husband. Love your children—but love!
People come to me here. They say, “What kind of ashram is this, that people are seen embracing one another, hugging one another!” In their view, an ashram means—dry, dead people sitting under trees. As if they have already died; nothing is left within them. Just sitting, waiting for God to call them to paradise. And what will God do with them in paradise? Think a little! Is paradise to be ruined? Is the sparkle of paradise to be dulled? If all your ‘great souls’ reach paradise, paradise will be in a bad way. Someone will spread thorns there and lie down; someone will light a sacred fire; someone will smear himself with ash; someone will stand on his head in shirshasana; someone will begin yogasanas; someone will start fasting; someone will dry up his body.
Gather all your so-called saints together and you will have Shiva’s wedding procession. Shiva somehow tolerates them—thanks to hemp; otherwise even he could not. “Take a hit, take a hit!” He keeps smoking—perhaps only to endure this procession; what a procession—one weirder than the other, unhealthy, sick, deranged…
People come here and are amazed. Here, love is prayer. Here, living wonderstruck like small children is our discipline. And I am against no form of love, because in my vision all loves are parts of the same rainbow. The love of the body is also a means leading toward love of God—the first step, the first rung.
Love has great heights, but you must begin where you are. If you are a husband, love your wife. If you are a wife, love your husband. Love a friend. Love your son. Love your mother. Love! And love so deeply, so wildly, that when you love your son, your love passes beyond his body and begins to see his soul—so transparent, so deep that it enters his inmost core. In your son you will find God. In your wife you will find God. In your husband you will find God. Until you find Him in love, you will not find Him in stones. And he who finds Him in love—finds Him even in stones. If He can be found in the body—the body is but clay, dust—then He can be found in stone as well.
You ask: “I cannot bring myself to have faith in God.”
Leave God aside! “Then what is the remedy for me?”
Cultivate wonder! Shake off your ‘knowledge’!
D. H. Lawrence was walking in a garden. A small child was with him. Lawrence is among the significant figures of this century—one of those few who are never understood; one of those few whom people always misunderstand. The child—as children do; only children can ask such marvelous questions; old people ask trash, their questions are borrowed from books—looked around in amazement—green everywhere! He asked Lawrence, “Listen, you are a great poet, aren’t you? Will you answer one thing? Why are the trees green? Why are the trees green?”
Now what answer can you give? Fortunately Lawrence was a poet. Fortunately he was not a scientist, not a professor, not a pundit—otherwise pundits never let go. He would have said, “Because of chlorophyll the trees are green.” The matter would have ended—and ended badly. And if the child had stopped there, the matter would have ended. Children usually do not stop. If you say “because of chlorophyll,” the child will ask, “Why is chlorophyll green?” If he is truly a child, he won’t stop so soon.
Lawrence stood a while; he looked at the trees, looked at the child, and said, “Brother, the trees are green—because they are green.” The child said, “That’s right. Absolutely right. Trees are green because they are green.”
This is no answer—and yet it is the only answer! Within it is a sense of wonder, an acceptance of mystery. Trees are green because they are green!
The day you look at the world with a wonderstruck heart, slowly—at some unknown moment—without even knocking at the door, faith will enter your heart, and you will not even know when it happened.
The last question:
Osho, what power or inspiration helps bring a person closer to God?
Osho, what power or inspiration helps bring a person closer to God?
Rajendra Bhatia! Life is enough.
And life has two modes, and both bring you closer to the Divine. The sorrow of life brings one closer to God, and the joy of life does too. The wise use both wings. For them, sorrow draws them near—and joy draws them near. Life’s sorrow tells us we are far from the Divine; that is why we are miserable.
What sort of sorrow is that? We have become stiff. We have become egoistic. We have taken ourselves to be separate. That is the cause of our suffering. At the root of all our pain is ego, the sense of “I.” Life’s sorrow tells us we have slipped away from God, gone distant. Illness tells us we have strayed from nature. Health tells us we have come close to nature.
Joy and sorrow are measures, indicators. Sorrow says that what you are doing is taking you away from the Ultimate Nature. It is informing you that you are moving away from nature, away from dharma. One who moves away from dharma is not punished—moving away is itself the punishment. And when joy flowers in life, know that knowingly or unknowingly you have come near the Ultimate Nature. The Ultimate Nature means the ultimate dharma—or say, God. These are differences in names. Say what is congenial to you. If your mind is scientific, call it the Supreme Nature. If you are devotional, filled with bhakti, call it God. If you put your faith in mathematics, call it Law, Order, Tao. They are all pointers to the same One, for different kinds of people, in different tongues.
So first, know this: sorrow brings you close to Him.
Is this life, or some storm?
We are dying at the very hands of living.
Just look closely at your life! We are dying at the very hands of living. Do you see it or not? Here you are only dying. Then this cannot be real life. One will have to seek the real life. Here, what have you found besides thorns?
This world is but a single tale of passion’s failure.
Each one, whatever he desired, devised a different title for it.
This life of longings and failures is just a long story—nothing else.
This world is but a single tale of passion’s failure.
Here, everyone’s desires are corrupted, destroyed, shattered. Here, all are defeated. No one wins here. Even Alexanders are defeated. Death announces the final defeat. However much you jump and prance before death arrives, however many excuses for victory you contrive, however many flags you may hoist—death comes and all the flags fall.
This world is but a single tale of passion’s failure.
Each one, whatever he desired, devised a different title for it.
Call this life whatever title you please, but what is there in it besides defeat? What is there in it besides sorrow? This is one face of life.
Beware the deceit of existence.
However much they say “it is,” it is not.
No matter how much your eyes assure you it is, do not be deceived. What appears to the eyes is often a dream. What the mind urges you to chase is a mirage.
Life is nothing but a constant grief.
Even when joy returns as memory, it comes back as tears.
Here everything is drenched with sorrow, everything steeped in tears.
“Saif,” this much is the tale of existence:
We came distressed; distressed we went.
And what else is the story of life?
We came distressed; distressed we went.
Let this sorrow of life be seen. Let the wound of this sorrow grow deep. Let it pierce your chest like a spear—then the remembrance of God will begin to arise in you. You will have to seek true life, because this is counterfeit. When the false appears as false, the search for the true begins. When the insubstantial is understood as insubstantial, the search for the substantial begins.
When shall there be release from the prison of being, O Jigar?
If death came, life went.
Here there is no escape from the turmoil; no release from the prison of existence.
When shall there be release from the prison of being, O Jigar?
If death came, life went.
Here, the prison of existence never lets you go.
If life went, death came. If death went, life came again. Life gone, death again. You are circling in this wheel of life and death—of birth and demise, of coming and going.
So first, see the futility of life. Do not raise the topic of God yet. Begin thinking from where you actually are. See life’s hell. Your life is full of thorns.
O comforter of grief, the thing that burnt every human to ash—
You complain it was death; I suspect it was life.
It is life that has ruined people, not death. Death too is only life’s final step—what else?
This is one way by which the search for God begins. There is a second way: see the delight of life, the joys of life, the savor of life. Both are mixed here. Not only thorns; flowers bloom as well.
Where a bud is blossoming,
there a flower is withering too.
Look at the withering flower—it too reminds you of God: that death will soon arrive; before it does, put your feet upon something eternal. Soon, everything here will be snatched away. Earn another kind of wealth.
And on the other side, buds are opening, stars are shimmering, children are gurgling with laughter, the cuckoo calls, winds gambol through the trees in joy. Such moments are here too. See these moments. These moments announce that whenever you are near God, such moments appear. Seeing the morning sun rise, you stand astonished, wonderstruck—such beauty! Such boundless beauty! Thought stops. The eyelids forget to blink. Joy spreads. Not only does redness bloom across the sky; gladness spreads across the inner sky as well.
These are hours of nearness to the Divine. In such hours, bow down, remember, give thanks. There is no need even to name whom you are thanking. Just give thanks. A gift has been received—the beauty of morning! This fresh air, these birdsong, this rising sun—give thanks! It is the gift of an unknown hand. We may not know that Hand, but the gift is arriving! Thus, you begin to draw near to God.
And one who is alert, intelligent, uses both wings. He reaches God through sorrow, and he reaches God through joy. Joy makes him grateful; sorrow makes him wise. Through sorrow he gathers himself, becomes aware: no more falling into sorrow now; I will not walk the lanes that lead to grief. I will not tread the paths that bring pain. Now I will rise above anger. Now I will awaken from greed. Now I will be free of lust. He takes profit even from this.
And whenever the hour of prayer comes in life—of gratitude, of the flow of beauty’s nectar—he bows in thanksgiving. He takes profit from this too. When a mistake is made, he says, “My error.” And when bliss arrives, he says, “Thy grace.”
The wise employ both wings and fly toward the Infinite. You, too, fly. Use both. Inspirations abound. Just open your eyes and begin to see. God is calling in many ways. All signals are His. From every side He is drawing you. But you sit like stone, inert. You do not move. You have sworn you will not move. If you will not move, you will miss the current of the Infinite. Flow with it. Become the flow! Do not stop. Do not stick. Do not become inert. Do not be like ice—melt!
Whatever melts becomes a means to lead you toward God. Melt. Let the heart become liquid. Let tears stream from the eyes. Let ecstasy suffuse the body. Let the mind be enraptured! Dance! Sing! Hum! You will arrive. He is not far; He sits near. Only the art of love is needed.
To the one who has learned love, prayer has come. To the one in whom prayer has dawned, God comes by Himself.
An ancient saying from the Jewish Talmud proclaims a rare truth: Do not think you alone are seeking God; God, too, is seeking you. The fire is lit from both sides. So do not be anxious—something or other is bound to happen. Set out; begin the search. His hand is reaching to find you. If you, too, begin to seek, then today if not tomorrow, tomorrow if not the day after, sooner or later the two hands will meet. That meeting is the meeting of incomparable good fortune.
How can I tell what lives in my heart?
The Guest has stepped into an empty house—
What claim of mine remains today to tell?
On that day you will find how vast you have become! On that day you will find your emptiness filled to the brim. On that day you will find your pitcher has swallowed the ocean. The ocean has entered the drop. Whether the drop falls into the ocean or the ocean falls into the drop—it is the same.
Kabir has said:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.
The drop merged into the ocean—how now to find it?
The drop fell into the ocean—how to seek it now? In the same way I was lost in God. That was the first experience of samadhi. When samadhi deepened further, twenty years later Kabir wrote a second sutra:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.
The ocean merged into the drop—how now to find it?
Twenty years later he wrote: O friend, searching and searching I was lost—and the ocean has merged into the drop. How to find it now? First, it appears that the drop falls into the ocean; so is the experience. Later the experience is that the ocean has fallen into the drop. First it seems I went into God and was absorbed. Then it is known: God came into me and was absorbed. Thus devotee and God become one. That is the hour of good fortune. That is the day Sundardas called the blessed day—bhala din!
How can I tell what lives in my heart?
The Guest has stepped into an empty house—
What claim of mine remains today to tell?
When the glare in the courtyard has passed
and the first cool breeze comes,
the wine-sweet fragrance of earth is scattered,
every limb is stirred to sprout—
Of this first touch of the Beloved,
tell me, friend, how can I tell it in words!
The sun set, the rays withdrew,
darkness gathered, stars grew bewildered—
You, rider of clouds, traveler of the sky,
arrived with a lightning crown upon your brow—
This brightness within the dark,
shall I call it night? Ah, what is “night” to call it!
You came into the heart-pleasing garden
and showered sacred drops of compassion.
I could not keep within myself, friend—
monsoon swelled in my eyes.
This honeyed drizzle at the corners of my eyes—
if not “rain,” then what shall I call it!
How can I tell what lives in my heart?
The Guest has stepped into an empty house—
What claim of mine remains today to tell?
That is all for today.
And life has two modes, and both bring you closer to the Divine. The sorrow of life brings one closer to God, and the joy of life does too. The wise use both wings. For them, sorrow draws them near—and joy draws them near. Life’s sorrow tells us we are far from the Divine; that is why we are miserable.
What sort of sorrow is that? We have become stiff. We have become egoistic. We have taken ourselves to be separate. That is the cause of our suffering. At the root of all our pain is ego, the sense of “I.” Life’s sorrow tells us we have slipped away from God, gone distant. Illness tells us we have strayed from nature. Health tells us we have come close to nature.
Joy and sorrow are measures, indicators. Sorrow says that what you are doing is taking you away from the Ultimate Nature. It is informing you that you are moving away from nature, away from dharma. One who moves away from dharma is not punished—moving away is itself the punishment. And when joy flowers in life, know that knowingly or unknowingly you have come near the Ultimate Nature. The Ultimate Nature means the ultimate dharma—or say, God. These are differences in names. Say what is congenial to you. If your mind is scientific, call it the Supreme Nature. If you are devotional, filled with bhakti, call it God. If you put your faith in mathematics, call it Law, Order, Tao. They are all pointers to the same One, for different kinds of people, in different tongues.
So first, know this: sorrow brings you close to Him.
Is this life, or some storm?
We are dying at the very hands of living.
Just look closely at your life! We are dying at the very hands of living. Do you see it or not? Here you are only dying. Then this cannot be real life. One will have to seek the real life. Here, what have you found besides thorns?
This world is but a single tale of passion’s failure.
Each one, whatever he desired, devised a different title for it.
This life of longings and failures is just a long story—nothing else.
This world is but a single tale of passion’s failure.
Here, everyone’s desires are corrupted, destroyed, shattered. Here, all are defeated. No one wins here. Even Alexanders are defeated. Death announces the final defeat. However much you jump and prance before death arrives, however many excuses for victory you contrive, however many flags you may hoist—death comes and all the flags fall.
This world is but a single tale of passion’s failure.
Each one, whatever he desired, devised a different title for it.
Call this life whatever title you please, but what is there in it besides defeat? What is there in it besides sorrow? This is one face of life.
Beware the deceit of existence.
However much they say “it is,” it is not.
No matter how much your eyes assure you it is, do not be deceived. What appears to the eyes is often a dream. What the mind urges you to chase is a mirage.
Life is nothing but a constant grief.
Even when joy returns as memory, it comes back as tears.
Here everything is drenched with sorrow, everything steeped in tears.
“Saif,” this much is the tale of existence:
We came distressed; distressed we went.
And what else is the story of life?
We came distressed; distressed we went.
Let this sorrow of life be seen. Let the wound of this sorrow grow deep. Let it pierce your chest like a spear—then the remembrance of God will begin to arise in you. You will have to seek true life, because this is counterfeit. When the false appears as false, the search for the true begins. When the insubstantial is understood as insubstantial, the search for the substantial begins.
When shall there be release from the prison of being, O Jigar?
If death came, life went.
Here there is no escape from the turmoil; no release from the prison of existence.
When shall there be release from the prison of being, O Jigar?
If death came, life went.
Here, the prison of existence never lets you go.
If life went, death came. If death went, life came again. Life gone, death again. You are circling in this wheel of life and death—of birth and demise, of coming and going.
So first, see the futility of life. Do not raise the topic of God yet. Begin thinking from where you actually are. See life’s hell. Your life is full of thorns.
O comforter of grief, the thing that burnt every human to ash—
You complain it was death; I suspect it was life.
It is life that has ruined people, not death. Death too is only life’s final step—what else?
This is one way by which the search for God begins. There is a second way: see the delight of life, the joys of life, the savor of life. Both are mixed here. Not only thorns; flowers bloom as well.
Where a bud is blossoming,
there a flower is withering too.
Look at the withering flower—it too reminds you of God: that death will soon arrive; before it does, put your feet upon something eternal. Soon, everything here will be snatched away. Earn another kind of wealth.
And on the other side, buds are opening, stars are shimmering, children are gurgling with laughter, the cuckoo calls, winds gambol through the trees in joy. Such moments are here too. See these moments. These moments announce that whenever you are near God, such moments appear. Seeing the morning sun rise, you stand astonished, wonderstruck—such beauty! Such boundless beauty! Thought stops. The eyelids forget to blink. Joy spreads. Not only does redness bloom across the sky; gladness spreads across the inner sky as well.
These are hours of nearness to the Divine. In such hours, bow down, remember, give thanks. There is no need even to name whom you are thanking. Just give thanks. A gift has been received—the beauty of morning! This fresh air, these birdsong, this rising sun—give thanks! It is the gift of an unknown hand. We may not know that Hand, but the gift is arriving! Thus, you begin to draw near to God.
And one who is alert, intelligent, uses both wings. He reaches God through sorrow, and he reaches God through joy. Joy makes him grateful; sorrow makes him wise. Through sorrow he gathers himself, becomes aware: no more falling into sorrow now; I will not walk the lanes that lead to grief. I will not tread the paths that bring pain. Now I will rise above anger. Now I will awaken from greed. Now I will be free of lust. He takes profit even from this.
And whenever the hour of prayer comes in life—of gratitude, of the flow of beauty’s nectar—he bows in thanksgiving. He takes profit from this too. When a mistake is made, he says, “My error.” And when bliss arrives, he says, “Thy grace.”
The wise employ both wings and fly toward the Infinite. You, too, fly. Use both. Inspirations abound. Just open your eyes and begin to see. God is calling in many ways. All signals are His. From every side He is drawing you. But you sit like stone, inert. You do not move. You have sworn you will not move. If you will not move, you will miss the current of the Infinite. Flow with it. Become the flow! Do not stop. Do not stick. Do not become inert. Do not be like ice—melt!
Whatever melts becomes a means to lead you toward God. Melt. Let the heart become liquid. Let tears stream from the eyes. Let ecstasy suffuse the body. Let the mind be enraptured! Dance! Sing! Hum! You will arrive. He is not far; He sits near. Only the art of love is needed.
To the one who has learned love, prayer has come. To the one in whom prayer has dawned, God comes by Himself.
An ancient saying from the Jewish Talmud proclaims a rare truth: Do not think you alone are seeking God; God, too, is seeking you. The fire is lit from both sides. So do not be anxious—something or other is bound to happen. Set out; begin the search. His hand is reaching to find you. If you, too, begin to seek, then today if not tomorrow, tomorrow if not the day after, sooner or later the two hands will meet. That meeting is the meeting of incomparable good fortune.
How can I tell what lives in my heart?
The Guest has stepped into an empty house—
What claim of mine remains today to tell?
On that day you will find how vast you have become! On that day you will find your emptiness filled to the brim. On that day you will find your pitcher has swallowed the ocean. The ocean has entered the drop. Whether the drop falls into the ocean or the ocean falls into the drop—it is the same.
Kabir has said:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.
The drop merged into the ocean—how now to find it?
The drop fell into the ocean—how to seek it now? In the same way I was lost in God. That was the first experience of samadhi. When samadhi deepened further, twenty years later Kabir wrote a second sutra:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost.
The ocean merged into the drop—how now to find it?
Twenty years later he wrote: O friend, searching and searching I was lost—and the ocean has merged into the drop. How to find it now? First, it appears that the drop falls into the ocean; so is the experience. Later the experience is that the ocean has fallen into the drop. First it seems I went into God and was absorbed. Then it is known: God came into me and was absorbed. Thus devotee and God become one. That is the hour of good fortune. That is the day Sundardas called the blessed day—bhala din!
How can I tell what lives in my heart?
The Guest has stepped into an empty house—
What claim of mine remains today to tell?
When the glare in the courtyard has passed
and the first cool breeze comes,
the wine-sweet fragrance of earth is scattered,
every limb is stirred to sprout—
Of this first touch of the Beloved,
tell me, friend, how can I tell it in words!
The sun set, the rays withdrew,
darkness gathered, stars grew bewildered—
You, rider of clouds, traveler of the sky,
arrived with a lightning crown upon your brow—
This brightness within the dark,
shall I call it night? Ah, what is “night” to call it!
You came into the heart-pleasing garden
and showered sacred drops of compassion.
I could not keep within myself, friend—
monsoon swelled in my eyes.
This honeyed drizzle at the corners of my eyes—
if not “rain,” then what shall I call it!
How can I tell what lives in my heart?
The Guest has stepped into an empty house—
What claim of mine remains today to tell?
That is all for today.