Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #4

Do not get entangled in the word “renunciation.” It is the ultimate form of enjoyment—the very pinnacle of it! We call it renunciation only so that you don’t remain stuck in what you have mistaken for enjoyment. Merely to distinguish it from your so‑called enjoyment, the wise have called it “renunciation”; otherwise it should truly be called supreme enjoyment.

What have you really enjoyed? You have enjoyed only suffering. What have you known—other than worries and torments? What have you recognized? A night of new moon with not even a lamp lit—full moon is far away. Will you call this enjoyment? This heart pierced by thorns, this mind ensnared in anxieties, this hell you have built around and within yourself—will you call this enjoyment? Yet this is exactly what you have called enjoyment. So, out of sheer necessity, the enlightened chose the opposite word—renunciation—to remind you that what you are is not your destiny; you are meant to be something else.

You have gone on running outward! And outside, nothing has ever been found but poverty—nor can it be. You go on begging. You were born like an emperor, and you are ending as a mendicant. There is a crown upon your head, but you neither remember it nor recognize it. In your hands is a begging bowl—that alone you see. That bowl has never been filled, nor will it ever be. You will die begging. Life is very near, yet you will not come to know it—because you are going opposite to the process by which life is known.

The first step toward becoming acquainted with life is: I must go within. First know what I am—then set out on any other journey.

The first journey must be the inner journey. If one sets out without knowing oneself, where will he arrive? What meaning will any arrival have? And one who does not know himself—how will he decide, “Which direction should I go? Where is my destiny? Which path shall I follow? Where will my fulfillment be?” One who does not know his own nature, whatever he does, he will do wrongly.

So the first meaning of renunciation is: turn within. Descend into yourself. Forget, as if altogether, that there is an outer world.

Within, and deeper within, and deeper still—step by step one can go down within, because man is a deep well, and there are springs of ambrosia there. If you descend, you will find.

When a person begins to go inward, those who are racing outside think, “Poor fellow! He has left everything.” The one who turns inward is moving toward possessing all. Those who run outward will gain nothing.

Renunciation is a vast dream—the dream of knowing oneself. It is an indomitable longing—to be acquainted with one’s own being. And through that acquaintance, everything changes, everything is transformed. All the values of life are renewed. What was precious till yesterday becomes worthless—because it does not resonate with your nature. What you never even noticed till yesterday suddenly turns into diamonds and jewels—because it matches your nature.

Once even a faint possibility of knowing oneself appears, even a single ray arises, your whole life becomes different. You will have to re‑align it. The essential becomes nonessential, the nonessential becomes essential. This event is called a turning of the sun. This event is called sannyas.

Trust in dreams, O one!
Melt your mind, let the reflections
of immortal dreams dwell in it.
Make true that glimmer which rises from within;
let even the unstruck fill the stars
with a gentle smile of trembling.
Trust in dreams, O one!

Day and night, from the horizons
come message‑laden clouds—
let not their fine drizzle, their thunder,
be wasted, O mad one.
Even if you live on some Ramagiri,
place your hope in them.
Trust in dreams, O one!

Let your inner language race
over the inaccessible Himalaya;
merging with the meters of the Ganga,
let every cursed hope be sanctified.
And like the cloud itself, pour joy upon the earth.
Trust in dreams, O one!

Renunciation is to be filled with this dream: May I know who I am? It is the greatest dream in the world, for it takes you close to the greatest truth of this world. It is such a dream that one who has not dreamt it will remain deprived of truth forever.

Melt your mind, let the reflections
of immortal dreams dwell in it.
Make true that glimmer which rises from within;
let even the unstruck fill the stars
with a gentle smile of trembling.

A veena is playing within, day and night—but only if you listen, only if you attune, only if you pause a little, only if you rest a little. In some moment of repose, shutting doors and windows, dropping the outer hustle—dive within—and the unstruck sound will be heard. That sound will renew you, resurrect you, bathe you.

A renunciate seems freshly bathed—ever fresh—as if he has just bathed! Such is his freshness, such is his virginity. But a bit of energy must be taken inward. If all your energy keeps rushing outward, who will go within? Who will get acquainted with himself?

A second point: renunciation is the greatest miracle in this world. A miracle—because what appears valuable to the whole world begins to seem valueless to the sannyasin. What seems collectible to the world appears futile to the sannyasin.

Buddha left home. Not an ordinary home—a palace. All comforts and luxuries were there: a kingdom, wealth, security. That night, when he crossed the boundary of his kingdom and sent his charioteer back—the charioteer was old—he said, “Listen! Though I am your servant and have no right to advise you, my age is that of your father’s. With the authority of years I say: What madness is this? In this world every man runs toward palaces, and you are leaving a palace? You will repent it! I speak from a lifetime of experience. Where are you going? Turn back! You are still young. Your experience is still raw. Look back: the spires of your palace still gleam in the full moon. Where else will you find such beauty? Your beautiful wife sleeps still in the hope that you are near. Your newborn son will cry, will writhe, will wait for you. Do not deceive them. Your old father, who raised you with such great hope, you are the apple of his eye. You are his all, the staff of his old age. Where are you going?”

The stories say Buddha looked back and said, “I see no palace; I see only tongues of fire. I see no life there; I see funeral pyres blazing on every side. I see only death. I am going in search of life.”

These two languages do not meet. What you call life, the wise call death. What you call wealth, the wise call poverty. What you call position, the wise call illusion. What the wise call wealth—you have no experience of it. What the wise call nectar—not one drop has touched your throat.

Renunciation is a miracle.

When a person, in a natural ease,
lets go of something great,
he, as if effortlessly,
links himself to a power
that changes the places of things—
makes the small great,
the hard soft, the soft hard—
such a miracle is renunciation! It is magic! The alchemy that transforms life.

You think the renunciate runs away to the forest? That is only the outer arrangement, the surface expression. The renunciate goes within. If it becomes impossible to go within while sitting in the marketplace, he goes to the forest. But going to the forest is not the purpose—going into oneself is the purpose. Wherever you are, if you can go into yourself, renunciation has borne fruit. And as I see it, one who runs to the forest perhaps has not yet learned well the art of descending within. Otherwise, you can go within wherever you are—for the within is always within you. It is not that it will be present in the forest and get lost in the market. When you close your eyes, when the breath grows gentle, when the mind falls silent—then you enter into yourself. Yes, you must step aside from the market of the mind.

I give you my spring
and I ask for your autumn.
There is no generosity in this—
there is a half‑lost tune in me:
my spring is mine.
Never, even for a moment,
could I remain sad because of it;
even in the season of sorrow I have gone on laughing,
catching the hem of the wind,
from this edge of earth to that,
from dusk to dawn,
I could think of nothing but blossoming.
And when dawn arrived,
I could do nothing but blossom—
all the ways of embracing joy
I have had to live through.
Moment by moment I have set kisses
on the languid brow of beauty;
the royal road of time
I have kept strewing with flowers.
I have poured fragrance day and night
into the atmosphere.
I never found even a quiet moment
to lie silently at someone’s feet.
Now I am restless for those moments.
I want to lay my spring aside—
rather, I want to give it to you,
because you were lamenting your autumn.
I ask you for your autumn.
There is no generosity in this, because
in this way I give a petal and ask for the root
that draws the juice.
Receiving autumn, I will learn to wither.
I will gather back my life from its scattered luxuries,
and understand the beauty of a form
dissolved, without the prestige of flower and leaf.
I will with my fallen leaves
sharpen the breath of the fog‑laden air a little more.
I will die from the surface,
and live drawn inward, close to my soul.
Freed from heaps of flowers and fragrance and song,
I will open wider, grow lighter.
By just folding in and clinging within
I will be able to withdraw
from the crowdedness of too much joy.
In this way, I will reach
to the tips of the tree’s deep roots,
where layers of water darker than night and cold
will live now in my breath—
such is my longing—and I give you spring,
and ask for autumn.
There is no generosity in this,
for thus I give the petal and ask for the root.

Renunciation is the process, the alchemy, of dropping the surface flowers and leaves and descending into one’s roots.

There is no generosity in this,
for thus I give the petal and ask for the root.

Mahavira distributed all that was his—he gave away his spring. But remember—there is no generosity in this! He set out in search of his roots.

In the days of autumn, do you know what happens? The tree turns inward; in spring it turns outward. In spring the sap flows outward—leaves appear, flowers come, branches spread—the tree sets out on a journey toward the sky, expanding in all directions. In spring the tree becomes the world. It forgets that it has roots. When such colorful flowers arrive, when leaves turn so green, when birds are buzzing, the sun shines, breezes blow, there is revelry all around—how can the tree not forget? It forgets. Decked like a bride, day and night it remains lost in outer ecstasy. It forgets that there are roots too—though the roots are the real. The breaking of roots and all flowers and leaves will wither.

All flowers and leaves are bound to the roots. They draw their sap from the roots. Without the roots they have no life. Remember this well: roots can exist without flowers and leaves—but flowers and leaves cannot exist without roots. That is why they are called roots. And remember also: flowers and leaves are visible; roots are not. Whatever is truly valuable is hidden in the invisible; the ordinary is visible. The visible is always secondary; the invisible is always primary.

That is why the world can be seen; God cannot be seen. Those who come asking, “Show us God,” are mad. They do not know that God is the root—He cannot be shown. Only the world can be shown. Yes, but the world is impossible without God.

In renunciation, in sannyas, the inward journey begins. Renunciation is like autumn. The tree forgets its leaves. It is tired—of leaves, of hustle, of running, of winds, of sun, of moon and stars—fed up with all of it. It contracts into itself—draws the stream of sap back. Flowers bid farewell, leaves fall—the tree becomes naked—sky‑clad. It drops all its garments—forgetting all outer adornment. As if now it has nothing to do with the outside. It descends into its roots. In autumn the tree searches for its roots. It becomes meditative.

Have you seen the beauty of a tree standing in autumn? That is the beauty of the meditator. Have you seen the naked branches of a tree in autumn? In just that way Mahavira once stood. That nakedness is the nakedness of the autumn tree. Have you seen the beauty of branches open to the sky in autumn? It has its own beauty, a beauty different from any other—because within it there is a purity, a simplicity, a humility.

In spring the tree is very beautiful, but there is an entanglement in it—overladen, heavy, covered, draped, overly adorned. Where does the tree go in autumn? Where do the flowers go? Where do the leaves go? Where does the whole stream of sap vanish?—it sinks into itself, descends into its own source.

Just so, a human life has two journeys—one we ordinarily call enjoyment; the other, renunciation. Enjoyment is the outer journey; renunciation is the inner journey. In enjoyment we become flowers; in renunciation we seek the roots. In enjoyment we go far from the roots—hence far from truth, far from God. In renunciation we come close to the roots, find our ground, discover the original sap of our life—come near to God.

But let me remind you again: renunciation is supreme enjoyment. In spring, others may take delight in the tree—but the tree is only restless, disturbed. In spring, others may rejoice seeing it—it is display, it is drama. But in autumn the tree savors itself, is rapt in its own relish, dives within itself, descends into its innermost core. Such is renunciation.

Renunciation is supreme enjoyment. Renunciation is one’s own taste. And one who has tasted himself has known all—nothing remains to be known.

Socrates has said: Those who know others are clever, learned; those who know themselves are the wise, the truly intelligent.

In spring we gain acquaintance with others—contacts, relations, friendships. In autumn there is self‑acquaintance. In enjoyment we form relationships; in renunciation we become unrelated. In renunciation, for the first time, we stand face to face with ourselves.

And remember: after renunciation, after self‑knowing, one may rise, sit, walk, undertake countless journeys outward—yet inwardly the connection no longer breaks. Then, even while outside, one remains inside. Then let springs come and go—one’s bond with the roots does not sever.

There is no opposition to spring—at least not from me. I am wholly partial to spring. But your spring will become a great spring if you are acquainted with your roots, if you are linked to them.

The old sannyas was opposed to spring, partial to autumn. What I call new sannyas is partial to autumn, but not opposed to spring. Your connection with the roots will give you the capacity and worthiness to bring a greater spring.

Therefore I say to you: renunciation is the door to supreme enjoyment.

The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjithah—by renunciation, enjoy. A wondrous proclamation! “Those who renounced—only they enjoyed!” For they alone knew the essence of life. You are picking trash off the surface! They found mines of diamonds. When you die you will leave behind a few shards. And what else will you have? Whether the shards are brass or gold—what difference does it make? Shards are shards. You will die and go empty‑handed. Then what difference does it make whether your hands were filled with gold or brass? At the time of death you go empty‑handed.

The renunciate lives full, dies full. His fullness—his pitcher—is never empty.

So I teach you sannyas—but a sannyas that includes the world. I teach you a renunciation that is not the opposite of enjoyment, but supreme enjoyment—in whose presence ordinary enjoyment fades, pales, becomes a nothing.

My key is this: when you find the true, the false falls away by itself; when you find the essential, the nonessential drops of its own accord.

I do not ask you to drop anything—I ask you only to know yourself. From that knowing, revolution begins on its own; it happens of itself.

Let it remain a silent experience. There is no need to say it. Otherwise the ego will arise. Why do you want to say it? What is the purpose? If you are a disciple, the world will come to know on its own.

When flowers bloom, their fragrance reaches the nostrils. The sun rises—without any drumbeat, without any proclamation, without any advertisement—and the birds awaken. Even in sleep one somehow knows the sun has risen.

Your song will burst forth; that alone will give the news. Your fragrance will be carried on the air; that alone will be the message. There is no need to add a bulletin. Beware of the ego’s expeditions. The ego is very skillful, very tricky, very cunning. It keeps looking for ways to make itself bigger. If there is wealth, rank, reputation—fine, it climbs aboard and rides. Not only that: knowledge, meditation, renunciation, sannyas—there too it hops on and begins to ride. Do not poison the nectar; the ego will poison it. Remain quiet.

Silence also speaks. And silence speaks very loudly. Sometimes even a loud proclamation cannot say as much as silence can say. Understand the potency of silence.

So, first: there is no need to say it. That you are my disciple—saying it to me is enough. I do understand your feeling. Your feeling is not bad. But the ego is so skillful it rides even on good feelings. Therefore a warning is necessary. The ego is so clever it hides behind piety; it finds a path even through simplicity; it becomes a claimant even in humility.

I understand your feeling. The feeling is beautiful. Whenever some joy happens in our life, we want to share it. We want those we love to hear the news. Those we have cherished, those we have recognized—naturally we wish they too walk this good path, that this light reach them too. If you are fulfilled by something, naturally you want your wife to be fulfilled, your husband to be fulfilled, your children, your friends, your loved ones to be fulfilled. You want to tell them.

Your feeling is not wrong. But if the ego sneaks in behind it, you will wish one thing and the opposite will happen. When a husband tries to bring his wife to sannyas, it becomes difficult—and then the wife doesn’t come. The more the husband tries, the more difficult it becomes. If the wife wants the husband to come, to listen to me, to understand, to meditate—trouble starts. Great trouble. Because those with whom you have relationships, bonds, are never ready to accept that you are wiser than they. Their ego gets hurt. They are not willing to accept it. Can any wife accept that her husband is more intelligent? Has that ever happened? Can any husband accept that his wife will ever do anything that bears the mark of intelligence?

Those with whom we have ties—we tend to think they have no sense. And they think the same about you. That is why there is so much quarrel, so much disturbance. In relationships, nothing seems to happen except conflict. Over the smallest things, quarrels erupt. Over trifles, arguments flare.

So don’t live in the illusion that if you tell your wife, “I am finding great bliss,” she will accept it. She might touch anyone’s feet in the world. If some Tom, Dick, or Harry wanders into her village, she might touch the maharaj’s feet, saying, “A great knower has arrived.” But the husband? That is the last case of all. If a wife accepts her husband as intelligent, consider it a revolution. It is near impossible. Very hard.

Those who grew up with you from childhood cannot accept you as a knower. Let alone you—they have not accepted even the great knowers as knowers. Jesus was not honored in his own village. Jesus’ famous saying is: a prophet is not recognized in his own town. The villagers had seen Jesus grow up; they saw him playing on the village paths. They knew Jesus, knew his father, knew his father’s father—knew them all. Suddenly this son has become divine! Impossible. It does not seem believable. How can it be that none of us attained God, and this boy has attained! And here he used to carry wood, for he was a carpenter’s son. Here he used to cut wood. In the villagers’ homes are the tables and chairs made by his hands. And he has attained God! Either he is mad, deranged; or he is a deceiver, making false claims. Who will accept him!

It becomes very difficult. The ego is badly bruised. That is why dead masters have prestige in the world. Living masters do not. Living masters get stones and abuse; dead masters receive flowers. Why does your love for dead masters arise all of a sudden? Because with a dead master your ego has no duel. What rivalry can you have with Buddha now? He may have been wise—let him be. Who wants the hassle! He must have been. Offer two flowers and be rid of it. Jesus must have been wise, Krishna must have been an incarnation of God. But when someone sits before you, in your home, your contemporary—your relative, your son, your daughter, your husband, your wife, your father, your friend—it becomes very difficult, nearly impossible. Only with great capacity for understanding will someone listen and comprehend.

You want to speak, fine; but who will listen, who will accept! And then a third difficulty: there are things that simply cannot be said. Among them is this—that love is ineffable. And the love that happens between disciple and master is the most ineffable, because it is the very pinnacle of love.

There are three kinds of love, because within man there are three planes of life. One is the love of the body. Even that is hard to tell, but not as hard, because it is gross; the gross relates to the gross. The second is love of the mind. That is even harder to convey. For who has seen the mind? Neither its forehead nor its head nor its body—bodiless! How will you express this mind’s love? And if someone denies it, you will not be able to prove it. The love of the body has ways of being shown. You can hold someone to your chest and the body’s love is evident.

What will you do with the love of the mind? How will you express it? Yes, the one you love may understand—perhaps. Perhaps he recognizes it in your gestures and expressions, in your posture. The essence hidden in your words, in your rising and sitting, in your eagerness, in your eyes—he may catch a glimpse—perhaps. Because even to those we love, we have to say it; we have to speak, and then perhaps they understand. If you do not speak, they may not understand. To speak means to bring the mind down to the body. What is spoken becomes of the body. Words are born of the body. What belongs to the mind remains in the mind. The mind’s truth is in silence. But sometimes lovers reach such a height that words are not needed. They sit together—silent. Nothing is said. Nothing is uttered. Nothing is given or taken. Yet a dialogue goes on. Energy speaks to energy. Waves of force reach one another. There is an ecstasy. Mere presence is enough.

But if you set out to make another understand, you will be in trouble. Still, perhaps someone will say it through poetry, someone will play it on the flute, someone will make the veena’s strings quiver. From this were born poetry, music, dance—the means sought to express the love of the mind.

But then there is a third love—the love of soul to soul. That is the love between disciple and master. Music is not capable of saying it, nor is poetry. There is simply no way to say it. It is so profound that it is beyond all expression. It is known by the master, known by the disciple. It is utterly silent. There is not even cause there to make a petition. If you try to explain it to others, you will land in great difficulty. You will not be able to explain it. It is an inner underground stream, an inner Ganga.

Somewhat of matter, somewhat of mind—such are you,
some rays, some vermilion,
sitting in my mind without a stir,
as a rose, without opening,
surrounds the air with its fragrance;
as a thought, without becoming a song,
etches henna within the life-breath—
unexpressed!

Somewhat of matter, somewhat of mind—such are you,
some rays, some vermilion,
sitting in my mind without a stir,
as a rose, without opening,
surrounds the air with its fragrance;
as a thought, without becoming a song,
etches henna within the life-breath.

All happens quietly. No flower opens, yet the fragrance spreads. No song awakens, yet poetry pervades. No veena is played, no strings are plucked—and an ocean of music billows.

Some rays, some sunshine,
a form almost within grasp,
some inert, some alive—
how shall I explain this Saraswati confluence
that flows within and within?
How shall I bring to the lips that shape lying in twilight,
rooted in waking,
grown vast in dream?
Why should I startle it now,
dragging it into glare?
Why give a petal to fragrance itself?
Why breathe life into the superconscious?
Why dress the inner stream of your remembrance
in a Ganga–Yamuna garment!

No, words will not work. This is the play of the wordless. This is the confluence of silence. It happened in a great twilight—neither day nor night—the hour of dusk.

Some rays, some sunshine,
a form almost within grasp,
some inert, some alive—
how shall I explain this Saraswati confluence?

You have seen! In our symbolic lore, at the great pilgrimage of Prayag, three rivers meet: the Ganga, the Yamuna, and the Saraswati. Two are visible; the third is not seen. That third is the ultimate height of love. That is Saraswati.

Some inert, some alive—
how shall I explain this Saraswati confluence?

The Ganga can be described, the Yamuna can be described, but if you set out to describe Saraswati, you will be in trouble. No one has been able to describe it. It has been kept invisible. There are many confluences in the world, but the great pilgrimage we devised—linking it with an invisible river—no one elsewhere has made anything like it. Two are visible; one is invisible. And the invisible is the foundation of all that is visible. All that is seen is born from it, and into it all that is seen will one day dissolve.

What flows within and within—
how shall I bring it to the lips?

It cannot be brought. If you try, you will greatly regret it. Because what comes will be something else. What you set out to say will not be said; something other will slip out.

Lao Tzu’s famous saying: the truth that can be spoken is not the Truth. The moment truth is spoken, it becomes untrue. Then all the scriptures are untrue. And Lao Tzu is right. All scriptures are attempts to say that which cannot be said. All have failed, and will go on failing.

And that is our good fortune—that scriptures do not win. If scriptures were to win—words are like rubbish—truth too would become rubbish. It is good that scriptures have been losing and will go on losing. Good that Truth has never been spoken and never will be. It has to be discovered. One has to know it oneself. It is known by inner wisdom. Each one has to find his own truth. Each one has to know his own truth. Borrowed truths do not work. Truths told by another do not work.

How shall I bring to the lips that shape lying in twilight,
rooted in waking,
grown vast in dream—

which has spread through the whole of life—from waking to dream, from dream to waking. When love seizes you with density, it spreads over every level of your life. In your waking you remember the beloved. You are engaged in a thousand tasks, and the tune of love continues. Entangled in a thousand works, yet you do not forget. An inner stream keeps flowing. At night, in dreams, too, the beloved’s shadow falls. And those who know and have awakened have found that even in the deepest sleep, when dreams are quieted, the inner stream of love remains.

When love awakens, it encircles your twenty-four hours. Each of your moments is threaded like a flower into the garland. In all your flowers, the thread of love runs invisibly.

Why should I startle it now,
dragging it into glare?
Why worry? Guard what has happened. What is the gain in dragging it into dazzling light? If you go to tell it to someone, you will not be able to tell it. You will get tangled, you will feel shy, you will sense defeat. Failing to say it rightly, guilt will arise: you went to say one thing and said another. You will not be able to win arguments, you will not be able to prove anything—because these things are not to be proved.

Why should I startle it now,
dragging it into glare?
Why give a petal to fragrance itself?

When it is fragrance through and through, why drag it back into a petal? When it is pure attar now, why turn it back into a flower? Why bring it into words? Why make it manifest? Let it remain unmanifest. And I tell you: the more you let it remain unmanifest, the deeper it will become, the denser, the more profound. A moment comes when its very profundity will astonish others. Its very density will set others’ strings twanging. People will begin to ask you, “What has happened to you? How did it happen?” Your very presence will bring a coolness. When you sit with someone, the waves inside that person will begin to change. But let so much gather. Let so much accumulate that whoever comes near you is stirred, is infected. These things are not for saying—they are for contagion.

Why should I startle it now,
dragging it into glare?
Why give a petal to fragrance itself?
Why breathe life into the superconscious?
Why dress the inner stream of your remembrance
in a Ganga–Yamuna garment!

Let Saraswati remain Saraswati. Do not make it Ganga or Yamuna. Do not clothe it in the garments of words. Let it remain naked, empty. If there is power in it, those who can know, who have the fitness to know, will know. And there is great power in it.

Have you seen? Did anyone ever imagine that in the smallest particle of matter—the atom—unseen by the eyes, so small that even now it has not been seen through instruments, which no one has seen—of whose smallness you can guess thus: if one atom is placed upon another, and upon that a third, and so on, a hundred thousand atoms stacked one on top of the other would equal the thickness of a human hair—within that tiny atom how much power is manifest! Its explosion—the story of that was written at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. One explosion—and a hundred thousand people turned to ash in an instant. If a single atom of matter has such capacity, how much capacity must there be in a single atom of consciousness! If the explosion of one atom of matter kills hundreds of thousands, do you think that when a Buddha explodes, millions are not brought to life? Those who had never known life, on whose branches leaves had never sprouted, flowers had never bloomed—do leaves and flowers not burst forth on their branches? In deserts where no stream had ever flowed—do streams not begin to flow?

Buddhahood is the explosion of consciousness. Call it the explosion of consciousness or the explosion of love—two ways of saying the same thing. One is the way of the knower, one the way of the lover: that of the devotee, that of the meditator.

You say, “I am your disciple; you are my Master—I want to announce this to the whole world, but I cannot say it.”

Be silent! It will announce itself. Cultivate it. Deepen it. Water its roots. Water it with your whole life-breath. Leave all the rest. On the day it is to happen, expression will happen.

Who is it who is silent in my mind
and smiles?
I want to meet eyes with him,
but he does not step forward.
Every dawn, when the eyes open,
it seems he was sitting by my pillow.
Every night, when the eyes grow heavy,
it seems he has come to lull me to sleep.
At every sunrise he gives strength,
in night he sings a song.
At some moments it even seems
as if he forbids—don’t do this;
at some moments he gives courage—
do this, don’t fear.
At some moments he frees me of all doubt,
lifts the life-breath upward.
Who is it who is silent in my mind
and smiles!

To be a disciple means: to seat the Master in your heart. To be a disciple means: we will no longer live from ourselves; we will live from his voice. His inspiration will be the ordering and discipline of our life. And then, surely, his voice will begin to come from your inner being.

Right now I am speaking to you from the outside, but those who have taken me within—I have begun to speak to them from within.

Who is it who is silent in my mind
and smiles!

If someday I smile within you, don’t be afraid! For then your smiling will seem mad, because you are not the one smiling. And if someday I weep within you, do not be anxious, do not be distressed. Tears will fall and you will see no reason. The reason will become clear slowly. Very slowly, very slowly, one day you will recognize—who laughed, who wept.

I want to meet eyes with him,
but he does not step forward.
Every dawn, when the eyes open,
it seems he was sitting by my pillow.

The bond between disciple and master is not some casual tie that is made and then unmade. If it is made, it never un-makes. And if it un-makes, know that it was never made. You were in illusion. You only believed it.

Every dawn, when the eyes open,
it seems he was sitting by my pillow.
Every night, when the eyes grow heavy,
it seems he has come to lull me to sleep.
At every sunrise he gives strength,
in night he sings a song.
At some moments it even seems
as if he forbids—don’t do this;
at some moments he gives courage—
do this, don’t fear.
At some moments he frees me of all doubt,
lifts the life-breath upward.
Who is it who is silent in my mind
and smiles!

Cultivate this slowly, inwardly. Bind it slowly, inwardly. Build a great dam. Be in no hurry to say it. One day it will manifest from its own energy. You will not be able to make it manifest. When it manifests, it will manifest by its own energy, and then even if you want to stop it, you will not be able to. It will not manifest by your doing, and it will not be stopped by your doing.

Then there is a beauty, an incomparable beauty—when you do not do, and it happens by itself. When the song bursts forth by itself, when the dance rises by itself. You are only a spectator—or not even a spectator. You are only a witness—or not even a witness. Everything is gone; you are no more.

The day the disciple is utterly not, on that day what begins to flow is what can carry the news to the world.

Yash Sharma! Crossing the distance between Rohtak and Poona will not help. The distance between you and me has to be crossed. The very name of crossing that distance is sannyas.

Sannyas is not a formal ritual—it is the process of bridging two inner spaces.

I understand, you must have felt hurt. You came from so far. But do you know, people here have come from very, very far! Rohtak is quite near. There is hardly a corner of the world from which people have not come. Think of Rohtak as a by-lane of Poona—not far at all. If meetings were arranged by distance, you would never get your turn. If the rule were: the farther one has come, the sooner he meets—then forget it, your number would not come.

Coming from a distance will not do. There is another distance—erase that. Then even if you don’t come from Rohtak, the meeting will happen. I will come walking to you. But erase the distance. And this distance is not material—that you board a train, set off, and it disappears. If only it were that simple! It will dissolve through love.

Have you heard what Sundardas said? When feeling becomes devotion, then the distance disappears.

You asked: “For a long time I had the desire to meet you.” Was it truly a longing? Then go a step further. If it was a longing, pay some price. Otherwise it wasn’t “longing” at all—just a thought, a curiosity: let’s go and see. Longing is a deeper word. It means an ardor so intense that, if needed, you will stake something on it. Curiosity means: if it comes free, fine.

Those who come to me should be clear: there is no place here for sightseers. If there is longing, give proof. Coming from Rohtak is not proof.

You asked, “Ma Yoga Laxmi said no non-sannyasin can meet you.” It’s not so. A non-sannyasin can meet, but the meeting does not happen. If you insist very much, I will tell Laxmi: let him in. There is no reason to send you away unhappy—but even then, the meeting will not happen. Laxmi is only helping you so that the meeting really happens—so that it doesn’t turn out that a meeting was possible and yet did not happen. There is no ban; non-sannyasins sometimes come, and if they persist I see them. But they come empty and go empty. There is no purpose in giving anyone pain. But if something could happen merely by “meeting,” it would be very easy.

For years I traveled throughout the country; I met millions. Then I stopped, knowingly—because I saw that such meetings do not bring anything about. Now we must meet on another plane—only then will something work. Now depth must meet depth, soul must meet soul. Now I want to give you something; I do not want to send you back empty-handed. But for me to give, you must be willing to receive.

This is all sannyas means: I am willing to receive. My doors are open. I have stretched out my cupped hands before you—fill my heart. Sannyas is just a word, a symbol. Much is hidden in it: I am ready to receive, to pay whatever price; I am on the search; I have seen much of the world and found nothing. Now I want to see what is not the world. Now a taste for the invisible has arisen. Now the quest for the divine has awakened.

Otherwise, people keep wandering. Wherever they hear something, they go there. Some spend their whole lives like this—pilgrimages, sadhus, satsang—but they never settle anywhere. And if you don’t settle, roots cannot go down. They come for two or four days and go.

Sannyas means: let your roots go down; connect—so that what has happened to me can happen to you; so that this energy can light your extinguished lamp. You want to return cheaply. Laxmi’s effort is that you return filled. But you misunderstood. You felt your feelings were being rejected. Here feelings are being awakened—who would reject them?

You say, “Is it only sannyasins who can meet you?” Only sannyasins are able to meet! Others may meet, but they cannot meet. They may sit nearby and exchange a few words—but those words are useless, merely formal. They inquire after well-being and take their leave. As they came, so they go.

This is not an ordinary religious place. Here we are intent on doing something. This is a spiritual laboratory. Here, Yash Sharma, if you have courage, you will have to lie on the table—there will be surgery. Sannyas is the beginning of surgery.

In surgery, you see, the patient is taken in, his clothes are changed, a gown is put on him, and he is laid down. And if he says, “I won’t wear the gown; I only came for darshan. My feelings are being rejected.” The ochre robe and such are only the preparation to lay you on the table. These are signals that, slowly, you are consenting; now you will go to the table. Something has to be cut away. Within you there is much that is useless and must be broken. Hammers should fall upon your head. Your heart needs much cutting open; only then can you be new. You must disappear, you must die—only then can there be a resurrection.

You say, “May I know why the feelings of a non-sannyasin are rejected?” Feelings are not being rejected; feelings are being honored. We are saying: if there are feelings, then why turn back now! Move on. You have made the outer journey; make a little inner journey too.

Do not turn your feet back, now that you are on the path—
Pour down now that, thunder-laden, you have covered the sky!
You are not lightning that flares and dies;
You are the land’s monsoon, flowing over the earth.
Time has found its voice in you—
Do not turn your feet back, now that you are on the path!

Learn to lay down your life—then life can be brought;
Draw Shiva into your breath—you will even be able to drink poison.
Merit has come walking to your door—
Pour down now that, thunder-laden, you have covered the sky.

Dance upon the waves to the beat of dissolution;
Cast your very breath in the note of death.
The meter of the Tandava has entered every pore of you—
Do not turn your feet back, now that you are on the path!

If you breathe in stingy, narrow lines,
Time will mark your brow with its sign.
This day has sung the song of a new age—
Pour down now that, thunder-laden, you have covered the sky!
Do not turn your feet back, now that you are on the path—
Pour down now that, thunder-laden, you have covered the sky.

Having come so far, now pour down. Now don’t stop. Now don’t be miserly.

You are only playing with words. Perhaps even their meanings are not clear to you. Do you understand what trust means? Trust knows how to say “yes.” “No” does not exist in its language. That much is the meaning of trust: if there is trust, then say “yes” now. Give evidence that there is trust. Saying it is not evidence. Do something that becomes evidence. Give proof for trust.
Sannyas is the proof of trust. But even then, if you want to meet me without becoming a sannyasin, you certainly can. Only, that will be just a performance of meeting. As you wish.

“How can one be free of scriptures and doctrines?”—the very asking makes it seem as if they have caught hold of you. You are the one clinging to them. How can scriptures and doctrines catch you? How can dead scriptures catch hold of the living? You have caught hold of them.

Now, from listening to me, the urge to drop has also arisen. So you have fallen into a duality. A dilemma has arisen within you. You want to go on holding the scriptures because you have always been told that only by holding to scripture will you arrive. And I tell you that if you hold to scripture, you will never arrive. Now you are in a dilemma; a great difficulty has come to your mind. You are the one who has to arrive. Until now you had heard: hold onto scripture and you will arrive. So one mind says—hold fast. And I tell you: if you hold onto scripture, you will never arrive. My words are also beginning to appeal to you—at least to your intellect: that self-experience is needed; nothing will happen through others’ experiences. And scriptures are the experiences of others.

Whatever I say—clutching that will not benefit you either, until you too reach where I am. Until you become as Krishna is, you will not understand the Gita. Clutching the Gita will do nothing. Krishna-consciousness must be born.

My point is beginning to make sense to you. The old greed still holds you. You have fallen into a dilemma; that is why the obstruction. How will scriptures hold you? Scriptures have not caught you. Nor is there any need to go set them on fire or throw them into a well to be rid of them. What fault is it of the poor scriptures? They are dear, as they are.

A young man used to come to me. He was utterly obsessed with the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita. He would worship the book, recite it, offer flowers, ring the bell for hours, dance. He knew the entire Gita by heart. Listening and listening—after all, even a stone, “rasari avat jaat hai, sil par padat nishan,” a rope passing and repassing leaves its mark on the rock! He was stone-like—otherwise why would he worship a book? But the rope kept coming and going. He had come to me to hear the Gita; I was speaking on the Gita in those days. Then he got caught. He came for the Gita—and got caught. That’s why I speak sometimes on the Gita, sometimes on the Bible—who knows who might get caught by that excuse! Listening and listening, the point appealed to him. One day, in great emotion, he tied up his Gita books and threw them into a well. Then panic set in; he was drenched in sweat. As if struck by a heart attack—he collapsed right there by the well. People picked him up and brought him home. For twenty years he had worshiped; now he feared: what if Lord Krishna is offended? What have I done!

News reached me. People brought him to me. He was crying: I’ve made a great mistake.

“Who told you?”

He said: you yourself said it.

“I never said, ‘Go throw it into a well.’”

But foolishness runs from one extreme to the other. Earlier he worshiped; now he threw it into a well. Hindus worship an idol; Muslims go and break the idol. These are two modes of stupidity. There is no real difference. Both minds are stuck on the idol. They appear opposite on the surface; there is not the slightest difference.

I said to him: Why did you throw it? What fault is it of the Gita? What need to throw it into a well? You could have given it to me—it would have been of some use. He said: What are you saying? You yourself explained that there is no essence in scripture.

I said: Certainly I explained that there is no essence in scripture; and that worshiping scripture is sheer foolishness. But if you had understood, you would have put the Gita on a shelf, as you keep other books. There is no need to worship, and no need to throw it into a well.

Understanding is always in the middle; at the extremes there is ignorance.

I had a teacher. I would sometimes stay at his house. Once I stayed there. It was winter. In those days I was reading the Quran. His old mother came. She asked me, Son! What are you reading? I said: the Holy Quran. She was a dyed-in-the-wool Hindu! She snatched the book from my hand and threw it straight outside. And said, In my house—and the Holy Quran! Couldn’t you find any other good scripture to read? So many scriptures are around! In my prayer-room alone there are so many—read whatever you like! You found the Holy Quran to read?

I said to her: You may think you are a Hindu; as far as I’m concerned, you are a Muslim. She said: What do you mean? I said: Only a Muslim would do this—throwing it away. Is this the Hindu way?

And I said: all your worship, etc., is false and nonsense.

But this often happens: the worshiper can become the iconoclast in a moment. One stupidity does not take long to become another. I told that old woman the story you must have heard: when a Muslim caliph conquered Alexandria, there was the world’s largest library—the precious treasure of centuries was stored there. When the caliph entered the library, he took the Quran in one hand and a torch in the other and asked the librarian: These hundreds of thousands of books—all handwritten—what is written in them, is it the same as what is in the Quran? If it is the same, then there is no need for them—I have come to set fire. And if you say there is something here that is not in the Quran, then too I have come to set fire, because then they are utterly unnecessary. If there is anything in them that is not in the Quran, it must be wrong—because whatever is true is in the Quran.

Swearing by the Quran, he set the library on fire. The library was so vast that it is said the fire took six months to die out. And it is said the world’s greatest treasure was destroyed. Because of that, all earlier history was lost. Hundreds of thousands of priceless things were lost, which perhaps humanity still has not rediscovered; which perhaps will take millions of years to find. The whole past of humankind was there. One foolish man set it ablaze. And the irony is that he burned it swearing by the Quran.

So I told that old woman: You seem to be the reincarnation of that very caliph. A thorough Muslim you are; not a trace of Hindu. But where is the difference between Hindu and Muslim! They are all the same. One clings to one extreme, the other to the opposite.

I told that young man: You threw it—that was excess. The question is not of throwing.

You ask: “How to be free of scriptures and doctrines?”

Understanding is freedom—mere understanding. Let this small thing dawn on you: if you are hungry, cooking bread will help, not worshiping a cookbook. And I am not saying set the cookbook on fire. And if you are thirsty, water will help. If a scientist writes the formula for water on a piece of paper—H2O—and you gulp it down, your thirst won’t be quenched. And the formula is not wrong; it is correct. But formulas do not quench thirst. With the formula H2O you can neither quench thirst, nor sail a boat, nor irrigate a tree—you can do nothing with it—yet it is true.

What is written in the scriptures is true; but without your own inner experience, who will bear witness to that truth? By reading scriptures, truth is not found; by knowing truth, scriptures are understood. By knowing truth, all scriptures are understood—the ones you have read and the ones you have not.

People ask me: you speak on so many saints; have you read them all? Who gets into such hassles! I just take a glance at what they have said. Then I state what has happened to me. What has become clear to me—that is exactly what became clear to them. Suppose Sundardas were present here—sometimes they come to see what I am doing with them—even if he insisted, “This is not what I meant,” I would still not agree. I have my own experience. The meaning has to be like this.

You have heard the famous story that Ramdas was writing the Ramayana? News reached Hanuman. He heard that a very sweet tale was being told. So he would come to listen too—Hanuman, covered in a blanket, tail tucked away, would sit hidden in the crowd. If Sundardas were sitting, would you recognize how he is hiding, sitting and listening? He would be utterly delighted, absorbed. The story was flowing so beautifully. Old memories were refreshed. He had actually seen that experience. He was a participant in the whole tale. Listening to it from Ramdas’s mouth, he was amazed: this man was not there, he should know nothing about it, yet he speaks as if an eyewitness!

But one day a tangle arose. Ramdas said that Hanuman went to the Ashoka grove and saw that all around white flowers were in bloom. Hanuman said, this man is making a mistake. He forgot we are sitting here hiding, tail tucked in. Someone may notice and a commotion erupt. He stood up—Hanuman after all! He threw off the blanket and said, Stop this nonsense! Until now it was fine, but the flowers there were red, not white. Make the correction.

But do people like Ramdas agree to corrections? Ramdas said, Sit down quietly. Cover yourself, hide your tail, sit in your place. Who is asking you? What I have said, I have said. The flowers were white and will remain white, and will be written as white.

But Hanuman said: This is too much! I am Hanuman. I went to the Ashoka grove. I saw the flowers. You were not there. You are not an eyewitness. Hundreds of years have passed, and now you sit to write the story. And to tell me to sit quietly! You will have to make the change.

Ramdas said: There will be no change. The flowers were white and will be written as white.

The quarrel grew to the point that, the story says, Hanuman said: Sit on my shoulder, I will take you to Lord Ram. Sita is also there. She will also tell you how the flowers were. And whatever Lord Ram says, will you accept that?

Ramdas said: If it matches what I say, then surely I will accept. When truth is experienced, this comes with it of itself: truth is self-evident. If it matches me, I will accept it. Come, let us go.

Hanuman presented the whole case. Ram said: Hanuman! First, you should not have gone there. What were you doing there? Don’t you have other work? And if you had gone, you should have sat quietly. Does it befit you to get up in the middle and break the discourse? And then poor Ramdas had to come all this way. Ramdas is right—the flowers were white.

Hanuman was stunned. He said: This is too much! You too were not there. There is a limit to injustice! I am the witness, and Sita is the witness.

Sita also said: Hanuman! You keep quiet. And what Ramdas says is right. The flowers were white.

Hanuman said: I want a full account of why this is being said.

Ram said: The matter is simple, Hanuman. You were in such anger that your eyes were bloodshot. That is why the flowers appeared red to you. The flowers were white. You were going mad with rage; you were unbalanced, not in your senses. Flames were leaping within you—you were set to kill or be killed. Where did you have the leisure to look at flowers? Blood was glinting in your eyes; because of that blood the flowers appeared red to you. Ramdas is right—the flowers were white.

When there is a living experience, then all scriptures fall in line with it. Then Ram, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Mohammed—all align with it. They have to; there is no alternative.

So when people ask me if I have read all these saints, there is no special need to read. I take a glance at what they have said. Then I say what has happened to me. I wish that one day it happens in your life too. This is not a matter of dropping; it is only a matter of understanding.

Scriptures are not to be discarded. Where have I discarded them? Has anyone given as much respect to scriptures as I have? So how can I tell you to drop them? I am saying something else. I am saying that nothing of your purpose will be fulfilled by scriptures until your own samadhi happens. To give value to samadhi I say, “Drop scriptures,” otherwise you will cling to scripture and go on missing samadhi.

I have heard: A young man went to America’s great millionaire, Morgan, and said, I have written this book. It is so astounding that millions of copies will sell and millions will benefit. Please publish it. Morgan asked—without even taking the book in his hand—What is the name of this book? The young man said: Its name is “A Hundred Ways to Make Money.” Morgan looked him up and down—shabby condition. He asked: How did you come? By bus, by car? How did you come?

He said: I came on foot.

“When were these clothes last washed? When did you last have a proper meal? ‘A Hundred Ways to Make Money’—and this is your state! Take your book away! What could be in it?”

The dejected youth took his book and left. Some five to seven days later, Morgan went out for an evening walk and saw that same young man begging by the roadside. Morgan said: My friend! If I remember right, you are the gentleman who wrote “A Hundred Ways to Make Money.” What happened? Why have you started begging? Why don’t you try one of the ways?

The young man said: That is the hundredth way. It is the last way—when no other trick works, that is the hundredth way in the book. You never even looked at the book. When the other ninety-nine ways fail, then this is the hundredth way.

Do you see this pitiable state? This is exactly people’s condition. Krishna sits on their lips; Vedic verses they can recite; Quranic ayats they can parrot. But there is no news of the riches within. Inside there is dense darkness, and talk is of lamps. But does darkness disappear by talk of lamps? If only darkness vanished by talk of lamps—how easy the world would be, how simple life would be!

When I say to you, Be free of scriptures, I mean only this: turn toward meditation. Do not waste your energy in knowledge. However much knowledge you accumulate, it will be of no use. A mountain of knowledge is of no use in comparison with a grain of meditation. A grain of meditation is enough, because today or tomorrow that grain will become a mountain of knowing. But a mountain of knowledge is worth two pennies; you will die crushed under it. The corpse will be pressed beneath it; it will become your grave—and nothing else will happen.

You ask: “How to be free of scriptures and doctrines?”

It is not a question of “how to be free.” No method needs to be practiced, no exercise done. Only this much is to be seen—just seen—this little vision: that what is not mine cannot liberate me. Only my own experience is my freedom. And experience happens through meditation. If I go on collecting the junk of knowledge, meditation will become difficult; because the more thoughts there are in your mind, the more difficult meditation becomes.

Meditation means: no-thought. So to be without thought, let all thoughts go—market thoughts, temple-and-mosque thoughts, scripture thoughts—let all thoughts go. When the mind is utterly without thought, then you will awaken, then you will know, then the lamp of knowing will be lit. And in the light of that lamp you will find: all scriptures stand confirmed.

Freedom from knowledge is not difficult; it is exceedingly simple. Freedom from scripture demands no sadhana—only a bit of insight, a little understanding, a little opening of the eyes. Borrowed things do not work; only what happens in one’s ownness works. You cannot see with my eyes, you cannot walk with my feet; my meditation cannot become your meditation, my samadhi cannot become your samadhi. Then what is the use of listening to me? Only this use: that a powerful longing arises in you to awaken the very source within from which these words are arising. Listening to Krishna, an indomitable longing should surge in you: that such a consciousness be in me too, where such flowers bloom. Sitting with the Buddha, within you this feeling should well up: when will buddhahood be in me?

I lift my finger to point you to the moon: look at the moon. Do not grab my finger. The finger is scripture. Let the finger go; look at the moon. The moon is neither mine nor yours. The moon is bound to no finger—not beautiful fingers, not ugly fingers, not these fingers, not those. The moon is free of all fingers.

Truth is free of Quran, Bible, Veda, Dhammapada—and yet all fingers point toward that truth. But do not clutch the fingers.

People are like children—they are sucking the fingers. They think nourishment will come by sucking fingers! Raise your eyes to the moon—nourishment is showering, ambrosia is raining. Open your eyes to the moon. Connect with the moon. Let the moon descend within you, let it be reflected within you. And for the moon to be reflected, become thoughtless within. Dust off the inside. Clean the mirror. The mind’s mirror clean—that is meditation. The moon’s reflection in the mind’s mirror—that is realization.

That is all for today.