Jyoti Se Jyoti Jale #8

Radha! This is really something! You call, you invoke me—and when I come, you start doubting.

A dream has its own truth. A dream is not merely a dream. A dream is not untrue. Whatever is—even a dream—is. It too is a wave of truth. That is why it is said: maya is the shadow of Brahman. A dream too is a form, a color, a fragrance of truth. Truth is formless; the dream is its form.

Drop these divisions. These distinctions have entered our blood and lodged in our bones: Brahman separate, maya separate; life separate, death separate; truth separate, dream separate. Nothing is isolated. All is joined in the One. And the day you recognize the One, doubts no longer arise. There is scope for doubt only so long as there are two. Understand this well. As long as there are two, the mind will keep asking, “Who knows what it is?” Even if the experience of the Divine happens, the mind will raise doubt: “Who knows—truth or dream?” And if you must doubt, why doubt only dreams?

Look right now: I am speaking. Who knows—you might have fallen asleep and be dreaming that I am speaking! How will you decide that I am really here speaking? What will be the basis, what the criterion?

There is an old tale. A follower of Vedanta, a fakir, proclaimed that the whole world is false. This is not Vedanta’s real declaration; it is a muddled mistake. Vedanta does not say the whole world is false; it says the world is maya. Maya and untruth are not synonyms. Maya means, as a wave is in the ocean: an appearance of the ocean, not falsehood. We cannot call it truth because the wave arises and dissolves—it is not eternal; but for the moment it is—fully. In fact, when you go to the seashore, where do you see the ocean? You see only waves. Likewise, wherever you search, where will you see the Divine? You see only His maya—His manifestation. Somewhere He coos in a small child’s laughter, somewhere He blooms in a flower, somewhere He showers in the clouds, somewhere He dances in the sun’s rays. Wherever you find Him, you find maya. And if somewhere He plays the flute in Krishna, or stands with a bow in Rama—that too is maya. And if somewhere He sits with eyes closed under the Bodhi tree in Buddha, or dances in Meera—that too is maya.

Maya does not mean falsehood. It means: these are waves of the ocean of the eternal. They arise from That and subside back into That. We call it maya only because it is not eternal. It is here now; it was not a moment ago; it will not be again a moment hence.

But that Vedantin announced: “The world is false.” Many so-called Vedantins say so. They know nothing of Vedanta—not even its ABC. Still, he was a logician; he could “prove” it. And it is easy to prove that everything is false, because to prove anything true is nearly impossible.

I am sitting before you, yet you cannot prove that I am true. For you have sometimes seen at night in dreams that you are sitting in a crowd of people dressed in saffron and I am speaking to you. How will you distinguish between that and this? And when you saw it in the dream, it felt real; and now this too feels real! Who knows about tomorrow? Tomorrow morning you might wake and find it was a dream—then what?

Truth cannot be proven. Hence the wise say: Truth is self-evident; it is not proven, it cannot be proven. There is no way. But it is very easy to prove anything false.

Negation is easy. The entire art of the mind is negation—no, doubt, suspicion. The mind is skilled in that. Yes is not the mind’s language. Trust, acceptance—these are not the mind’s way.

That man “proved” that the whole world is false. The village king was a bit eccentric. He said, “Fine.” He had a mad elephant. He said, “Release the mad elephant after him; then it will be proved whether the world is true or false.” The Vedantin got a little scared. He had argued a lot, waved his banner, defeated whomever he met, off on a conquest of the quarters. Only fools set out to conquer the quarters. What need has a knower? Whose victory? What victory? It is He who wins, and He who loses; He is on this side and on that.

The Vedantin trembled. And when he saw the mad elephant he lost his wits. Elephants don’t respect Vedanta or logic. You can say a thousand times, “The world is false,” the elephant won’t listen. He lifted his trunk, trumpeted, and charged after the Vedantin. He had long been eager to catch someone. Chained for days, no chance; many desires had piled up, many urges repressed. He was full of pent-up energy—had fasted well, practiced brahmacharya well! Today he got the chance—he lunged. The Vedantin ran, shouting, “Save me! Save me!” The elephant grabbed him and was about to smash him when the king intervened. His screams moved the king to pity as well, and he said, “The point has been proved!”

The elephant was taken away. The Vedantin calmed a bit, sweat dried, breath returned, his senses steadied. The king asked, “Now what do you think?” The Vedantin said, “All is false, Your Majesty! The world is maya.” The king said, “And just now—that elephant? And his grabbing you, twisting you in his trunk? And your screaming?” The Vedantin said, “All maya, Your Majesty! My shouting, the elephant’s coming, all the commotion, your saving me—maya. But I tell you, don’t call that elephant again! This is a discussion of principles—why bring an elephant into it?”

Do not divide life. See and live its nonduality.

Radha, you ask: “Once you came in a dream.”

I have tried many times to come—but you do not open the door. It’s night, dark, you are alone—who is knocking? People are afraid in the daytime; that you should be afraid at night is no surprise. You call much, you weep much. Perhaps hardly a day goes by when your tears do not fall for me, your call does not rise for me. But when I come, you get frightened. Then you begin to think: “Perhaps this is only doubt; perhaps only a figment of the mind.”

The mind is very skillful at proving everything to be illusion. When a thrill of bliss rises, the mind asks, “Is it an illusion?” And have you seen the mind’s trick? When suffering comes, the mind never asks, “Is this a mental illusion?” When happiness comes, then it certainly raises the question. When sorrow comes, it plunges wholly into sorrow. When anger arises, it raises no doubt; when compassion comes, it says, “Wait—perhaps this feeling of kindness, this compassion is only a passing ripple. Don’t give anything away. Stop a bit, think it over.” In a moment fit for the auspicious it says, “Think, consider.” In a moment fit for the inauspicious it says, “Do it now—no need to delay.”

Radha, you see other dreams too. You built a home and family—is that not a dream? There is a husband, children, house and courtyard, all nicely arranged—is that not a dream? Every night where does that dream go? In the night when you dream, are your husband your husband? What do dreams know of the vows you took around a fire? What do dreams know of who is your son? At night all that is lost; by day the night’s expanse is lost. Day invalidates the night; night invalidates the day. Which is true? Both are equally capable of invalidating one another. Do not bother with true and false between them. What you see with open eyes by day is also false—false only in the sense that it is momentary, maya; not in the sense that it is not. It is—fully. Your home is, your husband is—but as an ocean’s wave. And what you see at night is also momentary. The day’s moment is perhaps a bit longer; the night’s perhaps a bit shorter; but lengths do not decide truths.

But attend to one thing: whether the outer is true or false, maya or Brahman—do not take on that worry. It is That—within maya as well! The same One is there in the ordinary person’s dream and in the extraordinary person’s samadhi. But beyond both there is a witness. Catch hold of that, Radha! The one who sees—who sees dreams at night and the expanse of the world by day—catch hold of that. That alone is the eternal. That is the ocean; all else are waves.

You ask: “You came in a dream. Sometimes, in a torrential rain, it felt you were coming.”

Auspicious signs. Good omens. In a torrential rain, when clouds thunder, lightning flashes, winds dance wildly, raindrops drum on your roof—if in that whole orchestra I begin to come to your remembrance, it is good. Soon it will happen in the sun’s rays as well. The gusts of wind will tap at your door—there too it will happen. Little by little, it will happen more and more, at every moment. Gradually you will be surrounded by me twenty-four hours a day—drown in me. This is the mark of a disciple.

I am catching you through the dream, because in waking you slip out of reach—running! People say, “Take us, take our life into your hands,” and when I go to take them, they run; they fear, “Will I get into some entanglement? Will there be insecurity?” People are hesitant; in every undertaking there is a hitch. One step they take, one they withdraw. With one hand they set a brick of the temple; with the other, they pull it down. Then the temple does not rise; and when it does not, they writhe and weep.

A temple is built by shraddha—trust. Shraddha means: your whole life becomes organized into one work, gathered into one-pointedness. If you plunge wholly into one step, one feeling, one song—lose yourself utterly—then in that very absorption you will begin to hear the tone that is of the eternal. One name—Omkar! Within you the unstruck sound will begin to resound.

Good that in a torrential rain it felt to you that I was coming.

“And sometimes the smile in your picture seems such that you have come.”

Even now, what you are seeing is only my picture. I am sitting far from you. In your eye a picture is formed; that picture then goes into your mind. Whenever we see, it is all pictures. The eyes cannot see anything except pictures. The eye means a device for making images. The eye is a camera. What does the eye do? What is outside—who knows what is outside? No one knows for sure what is outside.

Ask a scientist and you will hear startling things. These trees seem green to you. Scientists say: when there is no one to see them, they are not green—because greenness is an event that happens between the tree and the eye. Without an eye, there is no greenness. Greenness is not in the tree; greenness is in your eye.

You will be startled: when all of you leave this garden and no one is there, when night falls silent, all the trees become colorless! Leaves are not green; flowers are not red. You will ask, “What is their color then?” They have none, because color is in the eye.

Haven’t you seen—put on blue glasses and everything looks blue. Where does that color come from? These eyes too are glasses given by nature. Scientists say: when you go to a waterfall and hear the mighty roar of the stream crashing on the rocks—do you think that when no one is there to hear, there is still sound? Do not be mistaken. When there is no one to hear, there is no sound—because sound can happen only through the ear. The river may fall and strike the mountain, yet there is no “sound.” Sound is a sensitivity of the ear.

You have this experience in life too—you needn’t ask science. After a fever, food has no taste. Taste is in your tongue. The tongue is unwell; taste disappears. The food is the same—where is the taste? If you look closely you will see your five senses have colored, flavored, and shaped this world. Remove yourself—and this world is colorless, tasteless, formless. That is what the wise have called nirguna—without qualities.

Saguna—“with qualities”—is our experience. Saguna is maya. On this point, science and the mystics agree. Saguna is our attribution, our creation. When we withdraw, only the nirguna remains—no qualities at all. And if you want to know that nirguna, you cannot know it outside—you will know it within, because outside you must use the senses. Outside, to touch you must use the hand.

When you say, “Something feels rough,” do you think it is rough? That is your hand’s impression. Are things themselves rough or smooth? Things simply are as they are; you have no means to reveal them as they are. As for things in themselves, it cannot even be said. But you do have one “thing” that you can know exactly as it is: your witnessing consciousness—the one who sees dreams at night, who sees the expanse of the world by day; who sees the green in trees and the red in flowers; who hears the sound of rivers falling from mountains; who hears the twang of the vina and the music; who experiences taste on the tongue.

The witness seated within you is eternal; all else keeps changing. The seer is nirguna; the seen is saguna.

Slowly, Radha, awaken to the seer. But it is good if, in the seen, the beloved begins to appear, the guru appears, the Divine appears—auspicious. There is no need to raise even a little doubt about this.

“Lord, is this my illusion or did you come?”

This question always arises in our mind—and only rises when something important is happening; otherwise it does not. When a thorn pricks your foot, you don’t ask, “O thorn! Is this my dream, an illusion, or have you really come?” When your head aches you don’t ask, “O headache! Are you real or am I merely imagining?” But when light spreads within, instantly the doubt stands up: “Is it so—or is it only my perception?”

Wake up! Slowly give up the mind’s habit of raising this question in relation to joy. Because that question will become an obstacle. Wherever it stands, it becomes a barrier. Turn this question toward sorrow.

Notice, I am not answering whether I came or not. I am answering thus: turn this question toward sorrow. Wherever there is pain, where there is dejection, where there is anguish—raise this question: “Is this real?” And instantly you will find yourself beginning to stand outside the sorrow. Do not raise this question in moments of joy—otherwise you will stand outside joy. First cut sorrow.

The seeker’s first step is to cut sorrow. Then, when all sorrow is cut away and only joy remains, then ask, “Is joy real?” Because then joy too must be cut. Then one more step higher: cut the seen itself, so that only the seer remains. And only the seer is such that this question cannot cut it; everything else is cut by it. That alone is uncuttable. Therefore we have called that the eternal truth; all else are waves of truth—momentary.

“Forgive the sins I have committed!”
What sins! The religious teachers kept on drilling into you that you have committed many sins, that you are a sinner.
No one is a sinner. Declare it to the whole world: no one is a sinner, and no one can be! The Divine dwells in everyone—what sin is possible then? And even if at times you feel some mistake has happened, remember: a mistake is not a sin. A mistake can be corrected. Mistakes happen because man is unconscious. Use even your mistakes to take you to God. Repent, but let repentance become prayer.

To the shy glances of a so‑called infidel is granted
that purity which scarcely comes even in imagination.
Paint the stains of the world’s grief with the color of joy, else
these are those stars in which light arrives only with difficulty.

Ah, how could we, the folk of the cage, forget Him?
Even if only in name, still—it was a home.
Granted the cloister and the sanctuary were close, but—
a tavern stood across our path.
We had no liking for sin, O Lord!
But we had to show our face to Your merciful gaze.

Do you understand the meaning?
Granted the temple and the mosque were very near—
but a tavern came even before them on our road, so we got lost in the tavern.
We had no attraction for sin, O Lord!
And we also tell You this, O Divine: we had no relish in sinning, no interest in it.
We had no liking for sin, O Lord!
But we had to show our face to Your compassionate gaze.
We had heard You are supremely compassionate, supremely forgiving—so had we not done a little sinning, how would we face You?
We had to show our face to Your merciful gaze.
With this thought we walked into the tavern. When we stand before You with folded hands, one needs something to ask forgiveness for, no?

Just think: if God is Rahim and Rahman—the Compassionate, the Merciful—and you arrive there absolutely saintly! You never made a mistake, never sinned, followed every iota of rule and regulation, kept the Ashtanga Yoga to the letter; you walked exactly as the scriptures prescribed, not straying a hair’s breadth. Just think—wouldn’t God be in a fix? He’d look at you, then at Himself, and not know where to begin the conversation! It would be awkward, Radha. A few small sins give the joy of bowing, the flavor of contrition. We can lay our head at His feet and say, “Forgive.”

We had to show our face to Your merciful gaze—
we had no liking for sin, O Lord!

Don’t worry about small mistakes. And with me, don’t worry about this at all—for in my vision no one is a sinner. In my vision no one is bad. In this world there is no way to be bad, because the Divine has filled this world so brimful with Himself—what mistake, what sin, is possible here? Only awareness is needed.

But Radha, drop this habit now. Even in dreams begin to see only Him. Even in forgetfulness, let it be His hand. Now surrender all to Him.

Whichever way I turned in life’s fairground,
I collided with Your thought and came to a halt.

Now, wherever the eyes go, let them bump into the remembrance of Him. In this journey of life, whichever direction the face turns, let there be recognition of Him, meeting with Him.
It is good that in the rumble of thunder you have begun to hear me; slowly, in me you will begin to hear Him. This is the function of the Master: to link you to himself so that, by that very pretext, you begin to be linked to the Invisible. And these little questions of doubt that arise—let them go, bid them farewell.

What union is this? Perhaps loneliness has changed its dress.
What are we to make of Your coming for a single breath?

The mind will go on raising doubts. It will say, “What union? Perhaps loneliness has only changed its costume. What is there to make of Your coming but for a moment?”
But even if, for a moment, a ray of Truth descends—even if in a dream—it transforms. Your dreams do not leave you untouched. The dreams you see also change you.
Have you ever noticed? If one night you dream sweet dreams—dreams of peace and joy, dreams of samadhi; one night you dream of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Muhammad; one night you dream that you yourself are Buddha, sitting in samadhi under a tree—will anger be just as easy the next day as before? Though it was only a dream, the next day there will be a freshness on your mind. Your style of living will be different. There will be dance in your feet, a luster in your eyes. And if one night you dream of murder—you kill, you cut, blood flows, heads roll, a night of sorrowful dreams—do you think there will be no consequence the next day? Your mind will be depressed, anxious, sad, sick. Then what is the difference between dream and day? Both influence each other.

Drop the distinction. The day too is a kind of dream, and the dream too a kind of waking. In dropping this distinction, the Third will begin to be remembered: Who is it that sees both? In the day with eyes open, at night with eyes closed—who is the witness of all? That is the Divine.

Hari Vedant! They are quite right. They have to say it. They are not saying anything about you; they are only defending themselves. If you are right, then they are wrong. Only if you are wrong can they protect their sense of being right.

So do not be angry with them. Understand their feeling. They have become afraid of you, frightened of you. Your joy has become a danger to them, a challenge. If you are truly joyous, then they will have to change their lives. They too have been seeking joy and have not found it. They too have wanted to be so carefree and intoxicated, to dance, to sing songs of joy dropping all social restraints—whose heart has not desired that? But the life they have built has turned into a kind of hell. All the threads are tangled. Nothing makes sense. Then, suddenly, one day someone just like them begins to dance. Until yesterday you were tangled just as they were—in the same marketplace, the same crowd, the same commotions. Today, suddenly, you have begun to dance! How can the crowd accept that such transformation happens in a moment?

They do not know that if the touchstone touches, iron becomes gold in an instant. It does not take lifetimes. And the hell you have made is of your own making; the very moment you decide to drop it, it drops. Naturally they will doubt: it looks like a pose. This laughter must be false. How could this laughter be real? For they have known only thorns; how could these flowers be real? You must have bought them in the market—plastic, fake, paper. This laughter must be only on the lips. Either he has been deceived, or he is deceiving—one of the two.

To accept a third possibility is very painful: that what has happened has truly happened. For then what of us? What shall we do with our life? Tear down everything we built and start anew? Few have that courage. Begin again from A, B, C? Start the journey again from the first lesson? Then these fifty years—were they all wasted? That much courage is found in very few brave souls.

Therefore those who have courage will accept it, and those who do not will not accept it.

You say: “People are calling it a sham that, having surrendered myself at your feet, I have become unburdened and blissful.”
Understand their helplessness. Poor people, they are saying what they must. They are trying to protect themselves. By calling you a pretender, they are putting on armor. When they say to you, “It’s a sham,” they have raised a shield around themselves. They are safeguarding themselves: “No, this has not really happened.” Do not get anxious; keep walking as you are walking. You are moving rightly. The crowd is with them. And any solitary person who steps aside is, in their eyes, either mad, hypnotized, or out to deceive.

That is one reason. There is another. I say they are right because for thousands of years so much deception has been practiced in the name of holy men that people have kept talking about bliss and begun to think that by talking about bliss one becomes blissful!

Go and look at your sadhus and renunciates. Talk of sat-chit-ananda goes on endlessly, but there is not a glimmer of bliss. Life looks like a dry desert and yet the talk is all about flowers.

It often happens that what is not in our life we compensate for by talk. It is a substitute. We cover ourselves with talk. A person does not want to expose his nakedness.

Psychology has discovered something very striking: what people show on the outside is often the opposite of what they are inside. The weak man parades himself as very brave. He is afraid of his own weakness. He’s trembling within, deeply frightened. He is so afraid he cannot even say, “I am afraid.” If he could say, “I am afraid,” understand, he would be a courageous man—the moment for fear to leave would have arrived. But he cannot even gather that much courage, to say, “I am scared.” He covers himself with doctrines, scriptures; he proclaims, “Me and fear? Never. I do not know fear at all.”

Last night I was reading the autobiography of a psychologist. He tells a lovely incident. He writes: Since childhood there was one thing I feared most—that anyone might discover that I am afraid.

People fear fear more than anything else, because others will call you a coward, a weakling—“impotent, good-for-nothing.”

He writes: In school I quarreled with some boys. A gang of boys arranged to beat me up. That day I managed to trick them and slipped away by the back path; they were waiting on the other road. But the next day I was terrified: if I go, today they will certainly beat me. There were two roads—yesterday they lay in wait on one; today they will arrange on both. And I did not want to admit my fear to my mother or my teacher. So I told my mother, “I have a stomachache. I don’t want to go to school today.”

Mother asked, “Where does it hurt?” I pointed, “Here.” She said, “This could be appendicitis.” I was alarmed: now a new trouble! What appendicitis? I didn’t even have pain. But I no longer had the courage to say I had lied. Mother took me to the doctor. I thought: he’ll examine me and the matter will end. The doctor examined me and said, “It’s not certain it’s appendicitis, but why take chances? Better to operate.”

Now I was really frightened. But matters had gone too far. You will be amazed to know: the operation was done! Now, at the end of my life, at seventy, I can finally gather the courage to say honestly: I had no pain, no appendicitis, yet my appendix was removed. I summoned the courage to undergo the operation—but not the courage to say, “Those boys are waiting to beat me, and I don’t want to admit I am a coward.”

Look closely at your life—and around you. Those whose hearts are full of sorrow often wear false smiles. Those who have never known love hum love-songs. This is how we distract, console, and deceive our minds. What to do? Man is very weak.

So those who call you a pretender have this reason too. For centuries they have seen pretence. Who knows how many kinds of impostors they have seen. And my sannyasin is a greater problem to them still, because I am giving sannyas a new definition, a new meaning, beyond their understanding, something they have never heard or seen. For them sannyas meant: renounce everything and run away. Now, if they don’t call you a pretender, what else can they call you? You have not left anything—what kind of sannyas is this!

So I say: poor people, they are right in their way. Do not be angry with them. If they saw an old-style monk with wife and children, they would call him a pretender. If they saw an old-style monk keeping a shop, they would call him a pretender. And I have told you: don’t leave your shop; don’t leave your wife and children. In fact I have taken away the very means of hypocrisy from you—but they will understand when they understand. I have cut hypocrisy at the root. Where is the scope left? For my sannyasin there is no device left to pretend. What would you pretend? All the things that used to be done as pretence, I have permitted you to do openly.

My sannyasin simply cannot be a hypocrite. He would be a hypocrite only if he renounced, ran away, sat in a jungle with eyes closed—then you may say, “This is hypocrisy. What are you doing here?”

For I have said: See the divine in the world. Seek worship in the small acts of life. Search for the vast within the minute. Find the formless within form.

I have not told you to renounce; hence their saying is quite understandable. They have only the old language. My language is still in the making. They have no way to understand what I am saying. I have left them dumbfounded, bewildered. They cannot make out what is happening.

An old-style renunciate came some days ago. He said, “What kind of sannyas is this? I have been a monk for thirty years; I’m sixty. I have seen many saints, wandered the Himalayas, traveled to Gangotri. But what kind of sannyas is this?”

I said: This is sahaj sannyas—natural, effortless. For me sannyas means a state of feeling in which you stand in the marketplace and yet are alone; you do all actions and yet are desireless; you live in relationships and yet remain unattached.

One of my friends took sannyas. Eight days later he came and said, “Please give sannyas to my wife too.” I asked, “What’s the matter? Is your wife willing?”
He said, “She’ll have to be, because wherever she goes with me people stare: ‘Which woman is Swamiji taking with him?’ Last night a policeman stopped us: ‘Halt, Maharaj! Whose woman is this? Where are you going at ten at night?’ I said, ‘Brother, she is my wife.’ He said, ‘Your wife? Then how are you a sannyasin?’ Even a policeman knows what sannyas is supposed to mean.”

I gave sannyas to his wife too. Eight days later he returned: “I have a son. Please make him a sannyasin as well. Yesterday on the local train in Bombay two or three men got very upset. They said it looks like we’ve abducted someone’s child.”

Sadhus do sometimes abduct children to make disciples when they can’t find any! Disciples must be had at any cost!

He said, “Give him sannyas too, otherwise there will be trouble some day. Those men were ready to fight. We barely managed to explain: ‘Brother, he is our child.’”
“Your child? And you a sannyasin—and a child?”

I have put you in a tight spot—deliberately. Because whenever the first outline of a new conception is drawn, when a new feeling is conceived, people take time to understand and recognize. They will say, “All this is pretence. What kind of sannyas is this? Sitting in the marketplace, keeping a shop, working, having wife and child—what kind of sannyas?”

But the purpose of my sannyas is that you be joyous, absorbed, and filled with remembrance of the divine. This sannyas is also able to accept his world. It is not the sannyas of the weak. It is not the sannyas of escape. We accept life’s struggle in full. He has given life; to run away from it would be to insult him, to be ungrateful. If there is respect for him, there must be respect for what he has given.

Difficulties will come, Hari Vedant! Remember:
Only those deserve the shores
who can change the course of the currents.
The flow, the streams—you have to change them.
Only those deserve the shores
who can change the course of the currents.
You will have to struggle. That is your sadhana.

And hiding will not help. Do not try to sidestep circumstances either. That won’t help.
Eyes detect the gestures of love;
by hiding, fame spreads all the more.
So do not hide—reveal yourself as you are. Live sannyas. Live this sannyas—in all its expressions and supreme joy!

Let them call it a sham. What of yours is made or marred by their saying so?

Why do we get upset when people say something? Not because they have said something false. We get upset because we do not yet know our own nature. Our sense of self still depends on others. Whatever people say about us is what we believe about ourselves. If people speak well, we think we are good. If people speak ill, we begin to suspect we must be bad—when so many say so, when everyone…

And I am throwing you into the fire of society. These ochre garments—the color of fire—are not just garments; I am pushing you into the flames of the world. You will stand in the middle of the marketplace. Fire will be all around. People will laugh, slander, mock, insult, call you a pretender. And if you remain steadfast, they will also worship you. If you remain, they will honor and accept you. But these are steps; slowly, slowly it happens. You will have to endure all this difficulty. And there is a gain in enduring it.

Drop the very idea that what others say about you tells anything about you. It tells nothing! You do not know yourself—how will others know you? You cannot see who you are—how will they?

Know yourself first. One who knows himself no longer depends on others. Then whether others praise or blame, it is all the same. A balance, a rightness arises within.

All the roses crimson and as many as needed are in bloom;
all the people calm and absorbed and moving just as much as needed.
From within to without—
from jewels to corals, from eyes to petals, from flowers to fruits, from lips
to grapes, to sitar, to honey—speech;
faces ranging from the moon to the stars.
Come, you too, into this gathering; now all is well.
Today pain has been dismissed; joy has overflowed its banks.
Wedding coronets of rays will be placed upon you too.
These songs that are for everyone
the artists here will sing for you as well.
Instead of sitting helplessly and weeping, we have decided to laugh with open hearts.
Don’t you see the anklets tied to the feet of the greatest sorrows?
Every broken heart is today being joined to the sky.
No, brother pessimist, you cannot seize this—
the horse of the Ashvamedha of joy is approaching!

What I am giving you is a rare gift. People will not recognize it. With blind eyes, how will they recognize the rays of the sun? With weeping hearts…

No, brother pessimist, you cannot seize this—
the horse of the Ashvamedha of joy is approaching!
They will not see this horse. This is the Ashvamedha of joy.

Joy is God. Dance is prayer. Song—and its resonance—is worship. No vows, no fasts, no special yogas, austerities or mutterings. Let the fragrance of joy arise from your life—that alone will link you to the divine.

People will talk; they will say many things. Hear them. But there is no need to argue.

You ask: “What should I say to them?”
There is no need to argue. Do not waste time in debate. When people say, “It’s a sham,” then dance even more wildly with joy. When people say, “It’s a sham,” then laugh even more—out of love, affection, compassion! Do not be angry.

And these things are not to be explained. You won’t be able to explain them. Who has ever made anyone else understand joy? Yes, if your joy becomes manifest, the one who has eyes may see, the one who can recognize may recognize. Live your tune. Drop every other worry. Drop even the project of explaining. Your ecstasy itself will be the proof. You can be the evidence that something has happened—for which others too will begin to long. But this is not the work of argument, logic, or thought. It is existential—an expression of your whole being.

After all, how long can they keep saying it is a pretence? When they see your laughter only increasing, your songs deepening, your dance taking new colors and forms, when they see you have truly adopted an entirely different way of living; when they see you no longer manufacture hell around yourself, and flowers of heaven begin to bloom near you—that will be the proof. And you do not worry. Leave the tangle of explanations to me.

Flash like lightning, leap like a flame.
Do not spend your life as a chamber-lamp that never truly burns.
Do not remain like a wave tied to the shore.
Rise from the ocean of beauty as a storm of love.
Bloom like a flower in the gardens of longing.
Spread as the fragrance of spring’s many-colored blossoms.
Flash like lightning.

Let your joy flash across the sky like lightning.
Flash like lightning, leap like a flame.
And let your ecstasy rise like leaping fire.

Rise from the ocean of beauty—
become a storm of love.

Do not get into arguments—get into love! Whoever calls you a pretender—embrace him. Embrace him so totally that no one has ever embraced him so, so that his breastbones ache at night from that embrace, so that in his dreams he fears he might meet you again. Then knock on his door the next day and say, “Brother, come, let’s embrace again.”

Rise from the ocean of beauty—become a storm of love.
Bloom like a flower in the gardens of passion.
Spread as the fragrance of the colors of spring.

Become a spring—that is the only argument. Bloom—that is the commentary. Let my scripture be written in your life.

The destinations where guides never pass—
even there my lostness has carried me.
That gaze is not forgotten even today—
you looked upon me once.
We are drinking our own tears, yet
people call us wine-bibbers.

People will say you are mad, that you have been drinking. How would they know what you have drunk! How would they know in which tavern you have been initiated!

That gaze is not forgotten even today—
you looked upon me once.
We are drinking our own tears, yet
people call us wine-bibbers.

One who has peered into the Master’s eyes is intoxicated forever. Whoever has sipped a little nectar from that eye, taken a dip and become part of his life-stream—people will call him a drunkard.

Wine is wine—but, O cupbearer, if it is given with love,
then for us drinkers even poison becomes the water of life.
We are messengers of the light of auspicious times.
O Shad, with us this dark night comes to an end.

Do not even talk of wine.
Wine is wine—but, if given with love—
then for us drinkers even poison becomes ambrosia. If one learns to drink with love, poison turns to nectar. Love touches poison and makes it nectar. The real thing is love.

We are messengers of the light of auspicious times.
My sannyasins! You are heralds of a new light, messengers of a new message, a new ray of a new religion!

We are messengers of the light of auspicious times.
O Shad, with us this dark night comes to an end.

And I want that the dark night in which humanity has lived until now should end with you. After you, let there be a dawn—a morning in which life is embraced in all its colors.

A religion not of the other world, but of this world—and that brings the beyond into the here. For too long people have sought heaven in the hereafter and not found it. Now it must be created here. For too long people have hoped to live in sat-chit-ananda after death. Now live here, live now, in this very moment! Why after death? Before death! Live in such a way in sat-chit-ananda that then death is no more.

People will say many things. Do not bother about them.

Both unhappy and happy. The devotee’s state of separation is a great paradox! He is unhappy because the Divine seems just about to be found, and yet is not found. The sound of His footsteps seems to be approaching—now He comes, now He comes—and still the meeting has not happened. The taste has touched the tongue, but the ocean has not yet been reached.

So he is unhappy and happy too—happy because he is blessed. How often does even this happen? Only in the lives of a few blessed ones. When he looks back at others, he finds himself happy: at least I am weeping, but I am weeping for the Divine. I am more blessed than those who weep for money, for position and prestige; who weep over how to reach Delhi. I am better than them; I am blessed compared to them.

The sufferings of this world no longer appear to him as sufferings, nor does the world’s prestige appear as prestige. The entanglement of this world is gone; that sorrow-dream has ended. In this sense he is very happy, deeply at peace. The turmoil, the scramble, the running around, the mind being agitated every moment—“let me get this, let me get that”—all that has gone. The crowding has bid farewell. Now there is silence. He is no longer running in a thousand directions at once. He is no longer fragmented; he has become whole. In this way, looking back, he is very happy.

If we weigh him against worldly people, the devotee is supremely happy; but if we weigh him against the realized ones, then certainly he is in much sorrow—there is great separation. As the world has dissolved and an inner emptiness has gathered, so the longing for the Whole has grown deeper. Now, day and night, on the veena only one note rises: Meet me, meet me! Where are you, Beloved, where are you? There is only this one call.

Both—and in yet another sense, still both. He is pained because the Divine has not yet been attained; and he is blissful because it seems as if the Divine is nearing. From afar a sound is heard; a fine drizzle begins. The cloudburst has not yet come, but the drizzling has begun. Clouds are gathering in the sky; the monsoon is arriving. Spring perhaps has not fully come, yet a flower here and there has begun to bloom. But when the first flower opens, you do receive the news that spring is on its way, do you not?

And remember, the more one receives, the more the longing to receive is awakened—hence the pain. Blissful, blessed—because even what has been given was more than one’s worthiness, more than one’s merit. What had one done? What had one earned? So, very happy—and very pained: the thirst leaps higher, the thirst grows; the sense of incompletion becomes more dense. Now even the smallest distance is unbearable; not a hair’s breadth of gap can be endured. Now let light merge into light. Now let there be oneness. Now such an embrace that it never loosens. Now such a union that it never breaks. In this, there is pain too.

I had gone to pluck flowers in the garden of life—
and ended with my hem tangled in a thicket of thorns.
As long as there was no hope of Someone,
the heart was a flower without fragrance.
When the wounds of the heart were not deep,
there was not such sweetness in the pain.
It is Your grace alone—otherwise
life was never so desolate!
What a time it was, O Shad, that for us
grief was grief—and even joy did not sit well!

Such is the contradictory state. Understand—

I had gone to pluck flowers in the garden of life:
I had come into life’s garden thinking I would gather a few blooms.
And my garment got caught only in the thorns; no flowers came to hand.
And even if, tangled among thorns, a few flowers did fall into my hands,
there was no fragrance in them.

Until the yearning for the Divine is born, there is no true fragrance anywhere in this world. Until then all the music and color of life remain superficial, pale; there is no urgency, no aliveness. Even when two lovers meet here, there is no real union. Even love—life’s greatest event—goes to waste. Nothing is truly gained there either; no fragrance arises. When the longing for the Divine awakens, when the eyes begin to fix on the One, when they get caught on that one star—then an unprecedented event begins to unfold. Paradoxical!

As long as there was no hope of Someone,
the heart was a flower without fragrance.
When the wounds of the heart were not deep,
there was not such sweetness in the pain.

So on one side fragrance comes into the flower; life fills with zest, a festival descends—and along with it, wounds too appear. But the wounds are sweet! Hence I say: paradox.

Separation from the Divine is very sweet; union with the world is very bitter! Union with the Divine is very sweet.

To live on the path of untruth is worse than defeat; and to be defeated on the path of truth is victory.

When the wounds of the heart were not deep,
there was not such sweetness in the pain.
It is Your grace alone—otherwise
life was never so desolate!

You may be startled: the devotee says, “It is Your grace—you gave sweetness, and You also gave desolation. You gave yearning, You gave sweetness, and You also made life forlorn! Yearning arose; a glimpse came that something can happen, that life will not go to waste, that this seed will break, that this veena will sing. You gave hope. But the hope is so vast—can I fulfill it? The goal so distant, the summit so high, this Everest—can I climb it?” Yearning was given, fragrance entered life, meaning arrived; but can this yearning be fulfilled? Then the wound appears; then there is pain.

Yet whenever pain belongs to the Vast, it carries sweetness within it. There are pains that are sweet. When even an enemy sits beside you there is bitterness in sitting near him, but when a friend is thousands of miles away, there is sweetness even in the distance.

And then, great is Your grace—earlier life was never so desolate. I was entangled in my chores. There was the shop, the market, the business: earn this, earn that, build this house, build that house. In such busyness, who has leisure to be desolate? Even to be desolate requires a little time—where was the time? People were just running on and on. Where was the chance to sit a moment and reflect? But when the hustle of life is seen as futile and all this becomes toys and playthings, a great time comes into one’s hands. And then, for the first time, one begins to see: until now, all has gone in vain. Whatever was done or not done across births upon births—comes to zero. A desolation begins to descend. And what now seems worth doing—am I capable of it? Will I be able to do it? The legs tremble!

What a time it was, O Shad, that for us
grief was grief—and even joy did not sit well!

There were days like that: what to say of this unparalleled desolation—we didn’t even have life’s ordinary pleasures. This desolation is a great joy—the blessed desolation born of the longing for God! There were days when we lacked even the small, petty joys of life—what to say of this supreme joy!

There is no greater hope than to be made desolate for the Divine. No greater love than to suffer for Him. No greater peace than to burn for Him. In His restlessness lies repose. In wandering for Him there is great savor.

The devotee swings between two states: at times joy, at times desolation; at times trust, at times doubt.

Why did the bud burst, why did the flower laugh, why did the whole garden awaken?
Have They come to stroll the garden—or is it only the breeze of the promised dawn?

Morning comes, the breeze arrives, flowers begin to dance, fragrance spreads—the devotee runs out, rushing:

Have They come to stroll the garden?
Has He come? How else so much fragrance, so much light?

Why did the bud burst, why did the flower laugh, why did the whole garden awaken?

Surely He must have come. And He does come—only we lack the eyes to see! The flowers see Him before we do and burst open. The flowers recognize Him before us and bloom. The birds hear Him before us and erupt into song. Before us! We are very blind. The human being is very blind.

Why did the bud burst, why did the flower laugh, why did the whole garden awaken?
Have They come to stroll the garden—or is it only the breeze of the promised dawn?

Or is it merely the gust of morning, a deception of dawn’s promise? Is the morning breeze just deceiving? Such waves naturally rise in the devotee’s mind. He also fears: by my own effort, will I ever reach?

If You do not will it, then even attaining You we remain unfulfilled;
if You will it, even the grief of separation becomes easy.

All is in Your hands. In my own hands nothing can be achieved. From this, at times, despair grips him; there is pain as well. “Nothing is under my control. What path have I set out upon! What call have I answered? Whom have I started to follow—where nothing of mine avails, where only becoming helpless avails. The boat begins to sink. The storms are great.”

The wave of the storm saved me—otherwise
those on the shore would have sunk my boat!

But when the boat does sink—and when the devotee is wholly immersed in the Divine—then he knows: I am blessed!

The wave of the storm saved me—indeed!
Those on the shore would have sunk my boat!

Had I listened to the shore-dwellers, they would have said: “Where are you going? Have you gone mad? There’s a storm now; who knows if there is another shore? The boat is small. The oar will be of no use. You have no experience of such voyages. And who is the helmsman?”

And those in this world who are like true boatmen—they appear mad. If you now go with me, you’ll be going with some madman! Where will he take you? What reliance can you place on such ferrymen? Those who went with Buddha went with a madman. The so-called sensible turned their ears away. Those who considered themselves wise began to avoid Buddha.

Know this and be amazed: whenever a ray of the Sun has descended into this world, only a few brave and the few crazy have followed it. Because this is the path of drowning, the path of dissolving. Here one must die to attain. Here, the one who goes to the cross receives the throne!

Good sir! Ever fallen in love and such? Bhakti is simply the culmination of love. If you’ve never loved, I won’t be able to make you understand. If you have, the point can begin to land. These things are of experience; some taste in that direction is needed.

A man once came to Nagarjuna and said, “Take me too on the journey to That.” He was a poor man. Nagarjuna asked, “Have you ever loved anyone?” He said, “Love? Well, why hide it from you—there’s a buffalo I own; it’s her that I love. I’m a poor man, I have nothing else, but I’m very attached to her. If she ever goes missing in the forest, it feels like my life is in danger. If she falls ill, I can’t find peace.”

He must have been a simple, straightforward man—otherwise how could he have spoken so truly? People usually talk high and mighty. Ask them, “Do you love?” They say, “Yes, we love Krishna.” In truth they love a buffalo—perhaps not even that—yet they talk of Krishna. Or, “We love Rama, we love Mahavira.”

A gentleman used to come to me and say, “I love Mahavira.” I said, “That much I knew for sure.” He asked, “How do you know?” He ran a bicycle shop—its name was “Mahavir Cycle Mart.” I said, “Then it’s certain—your love is obvious! If Mahavira himself were to appear, you’d sit him on a bicycle and give him a ride around the capital—what a sight that would be. Such love for Mahavira!”

That man must have been honest and plain. He said, “Why hide anything from you? I love no one else. My father died when I was small; my mother died too. I’m poor, I never married. There is no one of my own—only this buffalo is my support.”

Nagarjuna said, “Don’t worry, that will do.” The man was startled. “Love for a buffalo will do?” Nagarjuna said, “Yes. The essence of bhakti is already in your hand. We’ll have to enlarge it, refine it. The diamond lies in the mud—we’ll wash it. Gold has dross mixed in—we’ll put it in the fire, refine it, make it kundan-pure.”

You ask, “What is the real meaning of bhakti-bhava?”

The deepening of love. Love becoming pure. Love becoming stainless, guileless. Love becoming causeless—without any reason.

But such a trouble has befallen the world: for centuries you’ve been taught, again and again, that what you call love is sin. The final result is that your connection with the Divine got severed—because love is the only bridge to the Divine. And love has been declared a sin. Your love for your wife—sin; your love for your son—sin; your love for your mother—sin; your love for your friend—sin. If all love is sin, then what can bhakti mean? And if all your loves are sins, your devotion will be hollow—merely formal.

I want to tell you: in all your loves there is a faint glimmer of bhakti. When a mother fondles her little child, in that caress is hidden Yashoda’s caress for Krishna. It needs to be uncovered, refined, cleansed—granted; but it is there. Only then can you refine it, only then can you cleanse it.

When a beloved loves her lover, there are moments when every beloved becomes Radha and every lover becomes Krishna. They are only moments—I know. They come only sometimes; still, such heights do come to love. Even in what is called “small” love, waves sometimes arise where every beloved is Radha and every lover is Krishna. It must be so, because in every woman Radha is hidden—she may be buried in much mud, that’s another matter. There are ways to bring her out of the mud. But if Radha herself is condemned, a hurdle is created; then there remains no way to bring her out. Then a verbal net of devotion will be woven—without roots in the earth. It will be airy. It will carry no one across, nor can anyone cross by it.

I want to give religion roots in the earth—I want flowers to bloom in the sky. But flowers bloom in the sky only when roots go deep into the soil. The deeper the roots sink, the higher the tree reaches into the sky.

Love life. Desire it in many, many forms. Don’t run away from life. Yes, just remember: don’t stop at what life is now; it can be refined immensely. Take it like this: suppose I gift you a veena.

A young woman got married. She was my student when I taught at the university. She invited me, so I went. It was necessary to give her a gift, so I took a veena. She said, “But I don’t know how to play the veena—and you know that well. I have nothing to do with it. Why have you brought such a gift? And what will I do with such an expensive instrument? It will just gather dust. I’ll keep it carefully though—you gave it.”

I said, “There is only one way to keep it well: start playing it.” She said, “But I don’t know how.”

No one is born knowing how to play the veena. People don’t come from the mother’s womb carrying instruments—‘Here comes Tansen,’ veena in hand; ‘Here comes Baiju Bawra,’ carrying his gear, beating the tabla, all arranged!” No one brings it. You must learn.

I didn’t meet her again for ten years. After ten years I met her—she had become another woman. She was radiant. She said, “You changed my life. That veena changed everything. You said, ‘Learn,’ and the gift you gave… Others also gave gifts. Someone gave a diamond ring—but what comes out of that? You wear it; in two or four days it feels like a pebble. Then what? Someone gave this, someone that. Only your gift was such that even after ten years—and even if ten lifetimes pass—each day something new keeps coming out of it. Now I am beginning to drown in it. The veena has plucked the veena within me.”

There were tears of joy in her eyes.

I asked, “Where is your husband?”

She said, “All gone.”

I said, “What are you saying!”

She said, “This veena upset everything. In one sense, you landed me in trouble—my husband didn’t like it that I was so absorbed in the veena. And my taste grew so much that day or night, morning or evening, whenever there was a chance, I kept at the veena. Practice grew so intense that the harmony between my husband and me broke. But I feel no pain from it, because through this veena I have begun to meet another, greater Husband. Some inner strings have begun to join. I have no worry at all. No anger either. No enmity. My husband took a job in another city. The relationship is next to nothing now. But I no longer find much juice in outer relationships. This veena has become my meditation.”

And I could see—there was meditation in her eyes! I could see a new glow on her face. The woman to whom I had gifted the veena had been ordinary; this woman was extraordinary. So much refinement had happened. A sleeping music had awakened within.

This life is an opportunity to awaken your sleeping music. In all the loves here, there is a faint glimmer of bhakti—sometimes more, sometimes less. Enlarge that glimmer.

If I give you a definition of bhakti, it will be mere words until they match your experience.

Why does my heart beat so, friend, tell me?
This twinge in my chest—you must know its name.
Is this what youth is called—you must surely know.
Tell me, in which season does this flame flare up?
Why does my heart beat so?

I don’t know—what is this fragrance in my breath?
What is this ankletless chime that I keep hearing?
In my thoughts someone lifts a veil and looks at me—
Why does my heart beat so?

My heart sways, hearing songs all by itself.
Youth smiles, hearing someone’s approaching footsteps.
I often startle—even a rustling leaf makes me jump—
Why does my heart beat so?

Some strange picture tickles my heart.
No one stands before me, and yet I hear a voice.
Again and again my scarf slips from my breast—
Why does my heart beat so, friend, tell me?

But is there any way to tell? And what need is there to tell? Once the heart begins to beat like that, the thing has begun.

You ask, “What is the real meaning of bhakti-bhava?”

Dance! Sing! Take the plunge in kirtan, in bhajan! Soak life a little in love! Those who are with you, those who are near you—don’t merely use them, don’t exploit them. Begin to see a glimpse of the Divine in them—your son, your wife, your mother, your brother, your friend, your companions. Gradually, wherever even a little glimmer of love appears, conjoin prayer to it. Sometimes hold your wife’s hand as though it were the hand of God—and see the difference! See whether some string is plucked within, whether a heart begins to beat!

I don’t know—what is this fragrance in my breath?
What is this ankletless chime that I keep hearing?
In my thoughts someone lifts a veil and looks at me—
Why does my heart beat so?

My heart sways, hearing songs all by itself.
Youth smiles, hearing someone’s approaching footsteps.
I often startle—even a rustling leaf makes me jump—
Why does my heart beat so?

Some strange picture tickles my heart.
No one stands before me, and yet I hear a voice.
Again and again my scarf slips from my breast—
Why does my heart beat so, friend, tell me?

But no one will be able to tell you. I can only indicate how this becomes your own experience. There must be some love—at least for someone.

And remember, I am not condemning any form of love. All love is auspicious. Whatever love touches, it makes sacred. Such is its glory. Love itself does not become impure. As I said: throw a diamond into mud—even then the diamond does not become mud. It may clash with mud, be crusted all around with it, lie there for centuries—still the diamond remains a diamond. A slight rain will come, the mud will wash off; a little polishing and again the sun’s rays will weave nets of rainbows upon it.

A diamond lies within you. Wherever there is love, deepen it. Because only in the rain of love does the diamond shine. Learn to dance, learn to sing, learn to hum, learn to love—these are all ways of love.

Cradling heart in the lap of heart, giving love a lullaby of love,
I sing songs of joy; I sway with a chiming ripple.
What message is this that has come today? My body-mind sways;
In dreams a dashing beloved kisses the hem of my veil.
From behind my veil I look—and looking, I am transfixed;
I sway with a chiming ripple.
Let my colorful dream not break even when my eyes open;
Even when we are far, may our togetherness not part.
Mingling with his every breath, let me lose myself in dreams—
I sway with a chiming ripple.
In the storm of full youth I lit the lamp of love;
My eyes shimmer and sparkle—I have found a new radiance.
O awakener of my fortune, let me preen over you—
I sway with a chiming ripple.

Sway a little! You’ve been standing stiff for too long. Let the grace of dance descend a little.

This place exists so you can learn a little love here. So you can become a little fluid, melt a little—so the stone-like heart in you can soften a bit.

People come and ask me: “Why dance in meditation, why song, why music?” In their minds is a rigid notion of meditation—that you sit with closed eyes, gloomy, hungry and thirsty: that is meditation. In their minds, meditation is loveless. In my mind there is a form of meditation that is love-full. When meditation is soaked in love, something unprecedented happens. Then you will know, in one stroke, Buddha’s serenity and Meera’s ecstasy!

I want to lead my sannyasin in the direction of just such ecstasy and such peace. I want to see a vast synthesis happen within you—as if someone had placed a flute upon Buddha’s lips!

With every blink, your love spills and spills.
I have come to your door, bearing a winsome form,
Carrying the shade of your tresses, the sunlight of your face;
Let every blink go to touch your feet.
With every blink, your love spills and spills.

In the beat of my chest today, I hear your footfall;
Beloved, I sing your praise, and hear my own tune within;
Even when I breathe, joy gleams and gleams.
With every blink, your love spills and spills.

Today I preen over my own destiny;
You are near me—today I blush;
Today even my veil slips and slips—
With every blink, your love spills and spills.

These songs were written for ordinary love. You may wonder why I quote them for bhakti. Know this: I do not see ordinary love and bhakti as opposite dimensions—they are colors of the same rainbow, rungs of the same ladder.

And I can only speak to you of what you can understand today—how can I speak of what you’ll understand tomorrow? I can only say what can make sense to you now. With the help of that understanding, move ahead—carry that small lamp forward, and tomorrow bhakti will make sense too.

For now, understand love. Do not miss love. And if you truly understand love, the rest happens by itself. In a deep understanding of love, one day the Divine descends on its own. Do not go against love. Whoever goes against love goes against religion. Love is religion.

Jesus said it rightly: Love is God. I repeat it: love is God. Do not worry about finding the meaning of bhakti first; first open the secret of love. It is with you. That much you can do now. Do what you can do now! One door opens, and the next becomes available.

But people often ask about faraway things and forget what is near. The journey begins from the near. You must start from where you stand.

Don’t worry where God is; worry where you are. Where is your love? And how shall we refine this love? How shall we practice it daily, the way one practices a veena?

Someone asked a great Western musician, “There is great inspiration in your music!” He looked at the man and said, “Forgive me: one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration! One percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent sweat.” The man asked, “I don’t understand.” He said, “Out of twenty-four hours, I polish for twelve, for sixteen.”

“And there’s the great joke,” he said in anger. “I am killing myself working sixteen hours a day, and people say: ‘You’re so gifted!’ Gifted means someone who doesn’t have to do anything—born with it.”

Someone else once asked this Wegner, “What if you don’t practice for three days?” He said, “If I don’t practice for three days, musicians begin to notice that something is off; if I don’t for two days, the great masters notice; and if I don’t for one day, no one may notice—but I notice; my God notices that something is off.”

Practice, unceasingly, upon this veena of love that is life. Many sleeping notes lie within—awaken them. The awakening of all those notes, and their coming together into one rhythm, one cadence—that is bhakti.

That is all for today.