Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #2

Thought and reflection are groping in the dark—and by a blind man.
Schopenhauer defined philosophy like this: as if a blind man were searching in the dark for a black cat that isn’t even there!
The thinker, the reflector, the intellectual—all are processes of the mind. And as long as mind is, there is no culture. Where mind is transcended, culture begins. The mind is transcended through meditation. So, in my seeing, in my experience, meditation is the only alchemy that cultures a person.
As man is born—natural—he is like an animal; there isn’t much difference between him and the animal. If there are a few differences, they are not qualitative—only quantitative. Granted, the animal has a little less intelligence, man a little more; but the difference is one of degree, not fundamental. The fundamental difference flowers only through meditation. The animal knows nothing of meditation.
And those human beings who live and die without meditation live in vain and die in vain. The opportunity slips by! It was a rare opportunity. Life could have touched the golden peaks of truth; lotuses of bliss could have bloomed; there could have been a shower of ambrosia—but without meditation nothing is possible.
Meditation means: that alchemy which refines the raw into the cultured. As someone chisels a rough stone and a statue appears. As someone cuts, polishes, facets a diamond fresh from the mine—then the diamond begins to shine, to blaze. Then it is truly a diamond.
We are all born like unhewn stone. That is our natural form. We are born as a possibility. To transform those possibilities—and they are infinite—into actuality, to make possibilities into truth: the art of that is meditation.
But this often happens—that we take “civilization” and “culture” to be synonyms. Civilization is outer; culture is inner. The very meaning of “civilization” is the capacity to sit in a sabha—social competence. How to relate with others—this practical skill is called civilization—etiquette. Inside there may be trash, anger, jealousy, all diseases, but at least keep smiling on the outside! There may be gloom within, but don’t bring it out! There may be wounds within—cover them with flowers! Meet others as if you are blessed, as if you have attained everything! Keep the mask on!
Civilization teaches you to wear masks. Then there are masks of many kinds—Hindus have one sort, Muslims another; Jains one, Buddhists another; Indians one, Chinese and Russians another! Hence there will be many civilizations. India’s will be different, Arabia’s different, Egypt’s different. Not only that—within India there will be many civilizations: the Jain’s different, the Hindu’s different, the Muslim’s different, the Christian’s different, the Sikh’s different; the Punjabi’s different, the Gujarati’s different, the Maharashtrian’s different; the North’s different, the South’s different! Differentiation upon differentiation; fragment upon fragment. But culture will be only one. Culture cannot be Indian, cannot be Hindu, Gujarati, Punjabi, Bengali—because culture is the refinement of the inner being.
Civilization is an outer matter. It is formal. Naturally it will differ. Different climates, different geographies, different needs—will certainly make civilization different. It cannot be the same. In the West, civilization will be different—suited to its geography, its weather, its climate. There, wearing shoes and socks twenty‑four hours a day, keeping a tie knotted—quite appropriate. But foolish are those who roam around India with a tie knotted! In cold countries, the effort is that not even a little air should get inside. But in hot countries, where sweat is flowing, people sit with ties strangling them! Who could be more foolish? In India people sit with shoes laced tight all day, socks on as well—drenched in sweat, stinking. But it’s all borrowed. Borrow civilization and you only advertise your stupidity.
Civilization will differ. In Tibet it will be different... In Tibet, taking a bath at brahma‑muhurta cannot be called civilized. How could it be? Do you want to die? Invite double pneumonia? But in India, to bathe at brahma‑muhurta every day will count as civilization, certainly. In India, sitting on the floor in padmasana is perfectly civilized. But in the West you cannot sit on the floor—so cold, so difficult. In India, even sitting bare‑chested may be civilized; in the West you cannot sit bare‑chested.
But culture cannot be varied, because culture is not connected to climate, geography, politics, or tradition. Culture has no tradition. Culture must be discovered by each individual within himself.
Meditation is the art of attaining culture, because through meditation the natural is refined; it performs the miracle of turning anger into compassion; the magic of turning lust into prayer. It is the complete science of pruning out whatever inside us is useless so that only the essential remains; of bringing forth what is most pristine within us; of cutting away the darkness, lighting the lamp, making it luminous!
Only a person illumined by the inner light knows what culture is. Only the buddhas have known what culture is. Culture is not a part of the world of fools. Fools will even corrupt culture. They will make it Indian, Christian, Jain, Hindu; they will impose politics upon it. Under the weight of geography and history, culture will be crushed. Culture is the soul of the individual. It is the bridge to meeting the divine.
Here I am giving you culture, not civilization. Because my view arises from my experience. My experience is that a civilized person is not necessarily cultured. The civilized person has many faces—one in the drawing room, another in the bathroom; one at the front door, another at the back. “Ram on the lips, a knife under the arm!”
The civilized person lives in great inner conflict, because he has repressed within. Civilization is repression. Any civilization is repression. It is the attempt to forcibly adjust a person to society. Without transforming him, you teach him etiquette: live like this, do this, don’t do that. All these commandments are imposed from the outside. Naturally his outer conduct will be one thing and his inner another.
Civilization is repression; culture is transformation, not repression. Where there is culture, civilization will follow; but where there is civilization, culture is not inevitable. Civilization can be a deception.
And there will be this difference too: one who has attained culture will be civilized only so far as civilization does not go against his inner voice. Where it goes against it, he will rebel; there he will be a rebel.
A civilized man is never a rebel; he is always obedient. That is why society is not concerned that you should have culture in your life; society is concerned only that you remain civilized—this much is enough. Remain civilized, and you remain a slave. Remain civilized, and you can be exploited—enough; remain part of the crowd. Go where the crowd goes. Herd mentality! And whether the crowd is right or wrong—that is not for you to consider.
A cultured person will be intrinsically rebellious. That is why I said, culture has no tradition. Culture is rebellion, genius. There is individuality in culture—not borrowed, not stale.
A cultured person will be civilized—up to a limit; he will certainly move with everyone, so long as he does not have to sell his soul. The moment you ask him to do something that goes against the voice of his inner being, he will rebel. Buddha rebelled. Jesus rebelled. Nanak rebelled. Kabir rebelled. These are the peaks of culture.
Buddha did not go along with tradition. Who could be more civilized than Buddha? Yet, having eyes, he could see: where is religion in the Vedas? Ninety‑nine percent is rubbish, so he rebelled. With rubbish, no compromise is possible. Of course, whatever one percent truth there is—let it be wholly welcomed; but the ninety‑nine percent untruth—let it be wholly opposed.
Mahavira rebelled. Kabir rebelled.
Society does not want cultured people. Society is satisfied with civilization; that is enough. Just put on the mask, keep acting as though you are virtuous; then inside do whatever you like.
The civilized man is political; culture has no politics. The civilized man is a consummate diplomat—he says one thing, does another; shows one thing, is something else! There can be poison hidden in his smile. There can be thorns concealed among his flowers. In everything of his there will be manipulation. In everything, dishonesty. His intentions will be one thing, what he declares will be another; he will declare what fits with everyone, while pursuing his real intentions in secret; and he will seek good pretexts for it.
Yesterday I saw a journalist’s interview with Morarji Desai. The journalist asked, “You have become prime minister—did you become so through your karma?” He replied, “No, it is by my fate that I became so. It was my destiny. God made me prime minister!”
All your life you keep scrambling, scheming, manipulating in every way—and now this final manipulation: why not also enjoy saying that it was God’s concern that, among seven hundred million people, this one man, Morarji Desai, should become prime minister!
And the bluff was exposed right there, because a drum’s hollow spot is not far to find. The very next question the journalist asked: “Now I understand that God made you prime minister, that it was written in your fate—but then why was your power toppled?” He forgot. How long can one remember a lie? Truth does not have to be remembered; lies have to be remembered. Instantly he said, “Some of my colleagues had the ambition to become prime minister—Chaudhary Charan Singh had the ambition to become prime minister—that’s why everything was ruined.”
Now this is rich: was Charan Singh not made by God? Was Charan Singh not made prime minister by destiny? Only for brother Morarji did God write it in fate! Nothing written in Charan Singh’s skull? He became prime minister by his own effort!
And the greater joke is this: then Charan Singh became even greater than God! Because God makes Morarji Desai prime minister, and Charan Singh pushes him aside and himself becomes prime minister. Then he is more powerful than God.
A drum’s hollow is not far to find. If you speak lies, anyone with a little eye to see will catch you at once. But this journalist didn’t catch on. He touched Morarji’s feet and left. There is even a photograph with the interview: the journalist touching his feet—as if to say, “What a blessed man, the one whom God has made prime minister!” The journalist couldn’t see the fun of it—that then surely God must have made Charan Singh, and then Indira too!
But these same old mischief‑makers are now running another campaign—“Remove Indira.” If God made Indira, why are you busy trying to remove her? Have you taken enmity with God? No, God makes no one else—He only makes Morarji Desai; everyone else becomes by their own effort! God is on his side alone!
These so‑called mask‑wearers will say one thing and do another. Don’t trust their stated motives. These are not the signs of culture. Yes, civilization teaches exactly this deception, this hypocrisy.
Civilization is hypocrisy. I am anti‑civilization; I am a partisan of culture. But culture does not come without meditation.
There is a danger in the word “culture” because it derives from samskara. Samskara can have two meanings. One: that which is given by others, imposed by others, taught by others. And the second: refinement, that which is polished through meditation. Those who connect culture only with samskara have understood the word but missed the soul hidden within the word. They have understood the body of the word, but the soul slipped from their hands.
Culture is not merely samskara, because samskara produces civilization. Parents teach—sit like this, stand like that; go to this temple, go to this mosque; read this scripture. These are all samskaras. We “culture” every child this way. We put the sacred thread on him and call it the yajnopavita samskara. And such samskaras keep happening. From birth to death samskaras continue, even after death—“the last rites”! The man has died, but the performers of samskaras won’t leave him; they go on doing samskaras even on the dead! They keep painting even the corpses!
Culture is not merely samskara; culture is fundamentally refinement. But for refinement you need the art of meditation. And meditation is neither Hindu nor Muslim. Meditation means witnessing—sakshi‑bhava. “As it is, utterly still!” Settle into the innermost form of your being, into that deepest reservoir of your life energy, into your center. Let there be a full stop. No running, no craving, no ambition! Such a dense peace, such thought‑lessness, such silence that not a single ripple arises! The lake so still that it becomes a mirror. Then what is, is reflected. The very glimmering of what is—that is the experience of God.
In the mind of an ambitious person there is such a commotion, so many waves of thought, so many ripples—how can the moon’s image be formed on the lake? It breaks and scatters. The moon is one, but in a rippling lake it is shattered into many fragments. The reflection can be fragmented; the moon cannot.
In that same interview, Morarji Desai said, “I have attained ninety‑five percent truth!”
Ninety‑five percent! Is this a shopkeeper’s ledger? But a Gujarati mind! Do what you will, you cannot escape being a bania. Even there, percentages!
I have heard: a Jew had just been married. A friend asked him, “Everything alright?” He said, “Everything is alright. I am in great bliss. What a wife I have got—she is a goddess, an apsara! Perhaps there is no other woman so beautiful on this earth.”
The friend said, “I know the woman is beautiful, but should I take it that you don’t know the whole story? Besides you, she has four other lovers!”
The Jew said, “Don’t worry about that. In a good business even twenty percent profit is great! In a bad business, what will you do with a hundred percent profit? If you find a witch who is wholly yours, what’s the use of that? This one is twenty percent mine—this is much!”
The Jewish mind is a trader’s mind. The Jew thinks in pure arithmetic. Whether a Marwari or a Gujarati—the mind is Jewish.
Even truth gets chopped into parts, into percentages! Is truth the world of money and interest? “Ninety‑five percent of truth I have attained!” When truth is attained, it is attained whole, indivisible. It does not come in pieces. No one has ever been able to cut truth into pieces. If you cut it into pieces, it is no longer truth. Lies can be in pieces, in fragments. Truth is whole, indivisible, nondual. You cannot even make it two—yet here they have made a hundred pieces! Ninety‑five pieces they have got; five pieces still left!
Do you see this madness?
And he said, “Only one ambition remains—to attain God.” One ambition was fulfilled—to be prime minister! As long as it was unfulfilled, he used to say it was his ambition; now that it is fulfilled he says, “It was my destiny. God had written it. It was bound to happen. No power in the world could have stopped it.” Now he says, “To attain God is my ambition!”
There can be no ambition to attain God. And one in whose mind there is the ambition to attain God will never be able to attain, because the ambitious mind itself is the obstacle. Until ambition falls, craving falls—even if the craving is to attain God—it makes no difference. Whether you desire wealth, position, or God—the desire is one; the color of desire is one; the delusion of desire is one.
Desire makes you run, rush; it does not let you be still. One who becomes desireless becomes still—“as it is, utterly still.” Where there is no desire, there is no running, no rush, no scramble. And one who settles at his center—God is found by him. God is hidden right there, not somewhere outside. And when it is found, it is found whole—remember. Either it is not found or it is found; there is no half‑and‑half—“a little found, a little not.” The attainment of God is a revolution—not an evolutionary progression.
But those who have not known meditation have not known culture either; they have not known religion; they have not known truth. They are wrapped only in the wrappings of civilization, adorned only with the ornaments of civilization. And the ornaments of civilization look like ornaments, but in truth they are chains. Gold, yes; studded with diamonds and jewels, yes—but chains are chains.
Civilization builds a prison—beautiful, decorated. But a prison is a prison—no matter how many paintings of great artists hang on the walls, no matter how beautiful the furniture, no matter if the bars are of gold. Yet some people mistake these prisons for homes. Not some—most!
I have heard: a traveler, a seeker of truth, stayed in a dharmashala. At the door of the rest house hung a parrot—its cage was beautiful—and the parrot was crying, “Freedom, freedom, freedom!” This too was the seeker’s heart‑cry—freedom, freedom from all bondage! It was for this very quest that he had come to this mountain place—to sit in solitude and become free of all bonds. The parrot’s cry was the same!
Then it struck him: in just such a cage I am also confined, just as this poor parrot is confined. The parrot’s wings have been cut. Putting him in a cage has cut his wings—his sky has been snatched away. He is a bird of the sky, a free rover of the vast heavens—how has he been shut behind bars! Granted the bars are beautiful. But the innkeeper might be angry... His heart wanted to open the cage and let the parrot fly, but the parrot belonged to someone else—there might be trouble! He said, not now; I’ll see at night.
At dusk, when the sun was setting, even then the parrot was crying, “Freedom, freedom.” The innkeeper had been in jail during the freedom movement, and in jail he had only one longing: freedom, freedom. When he came out, he did not teach his parrot to chant Ram‑Ram; he taught him the lesson of “Freedom, freedom.” But a lesson is only a lesson. And see the irony—he taught the lesson of freedom and kept the parrot locked in a cage! He didn’t have the simple sense that if you teach the lesson of freedom, at least set him free!
At night the seeker rose, opened the door of the cage; the parrot was sleeping. He shook him awake and said, “Fly!”
But the parrot clutched the bars still more tightly. He kept crying, “Freedom!” Crying “Freedom!” while gripping the bars! The traveler was astonished. He thought, with all this noise the owner may wake up and say, “You are letting my parrot go—what is this?” He quickly put his hand inside to take the parrot out and free him. But the parrot pecked at his hand, bloodied it with his beak, and kept shouting, “Freedom!” He kept calling—he had learned only this one mantra.
This is the fate of borrowed mantras. This is the fate of second‑hand mantras. He kept crying “Freedom!” and gripping the bars. And the hand that had come to give him freedom—he wounded that hand, bloodied it. But the traveler too was stubborn. Somehow he pulled the parrot out and freed him.
The traveler slept easy. In the morning, when he awoke, he was astonished: the parrot was in his cage! The door of the cage still lay open, and the parrot was again crying, “Freedom, freedom, freedom.”
Such is our second‑hand condition. Ambition—and to attain God! This is the parrot clutching the bars and shouting “Freedom.” Let go of the bars. And the irony is—if the parrot lets go of the bars, still it is not guaranteed, because the door of the cage could be shut; but you yourself have shut your door! If you open it, you can be free right now. No one else has shut your door; you have shut it for your own security. And now you cry, “Freedom!”
But the civilized man is tangled exactly like this—he not only deceives others, he deceives himself. Civilization is sheer hypocrisy. Culture is truth.
But remember, culture is not divisible—neither of the East nor of the West. When one goes within, where is East, where is West? Where is India, where is Pakistan? Where is Hindu, where is Muslim? When one goes within, all adjectives drop; what remains is pure consciousness. To attain that consciousness is to attain everything—to attain sat‑chit‑ananda. The rishi’s invocation is fulfilled there: “Asato ma sadgamaya, tamaso ma jyotirgamaya, mrityor ma amritam gamaya!” O Lord, lead me from the unreal to the real, from darkness to light, from death to immortality. In meditation these three mysteries shower upon you all at once; this grace becomes available effortlessly.
Culture makes you truth. Culture illumines you. And culture makes you immortal. Because culture takes you beyond time—where there is no birth and no death. Until the nectar is attained, know that life is in vain.

Vedant Bharati! I had a close relationship with Bhuribai. In my experience thousands of men and thousands of women came, but Bhuribai was a unique woman. Only a little while ago Bhuribai attained mahaparinirvana—she attained the supreme liberation. She deserves to be counted with Meera, Rabia, Sahajo, Daya—those few, rare women. But perhaps her name will never even be mentioned, because she was unlettered; a villager; part of the rural folk of Rajasthan. Yet her genius was unique. She did not know the scriptures, and she knew the Truth!

At my first meditation camp, Bhuribai was present. She came to other camps too—not for meditation, because meditation had already happened to her; she simply delighted in being near me. She did not ask even a single question; I did not give her even a single answer. She had nothing to ask, and there was no need to answer. Yet whenever she came, she brought a breeze with her.

From the very first camp an inner bond arose between us. It happened! Nothing was said, nothing was heard—and it happened! She sat in the very first discourse. The events and talks of that camp are collected in the book Sadhana-Path; Bhuribai was present in that camp.

It was the first camp—only fifty people had come. Far away in a remote, lonely place in Rajasthan, at Muchhala Mahavir. With Bhuribai there was a High Court advocate, Kalidas Bhatia, who served her. He had left everything—law, courts. He washed her clothes, pressed her feet. Bhuribai was elderly, around seventy. She had come. Kalidas Bhatia had come, and ten or fifteen of her devotees. A few people knew her. She listened to my talk. Then when the time came to sit for meditation, she went off to her room. Kalidas was startled—after all, we have come here for meditation. He ran to her and said, “You listened so attentively; now that the time has come to do it, why are you leaving?” Bhuribai said, “You go, you go! I have understood.”

Kalidas was very puzzled: if she has understood, why doesn’t she meditate! He came and asked me, “What is the matter? Bhuribai says she has understood, then why doesn’t she meditate? And when I asked her she said, ‘Go—ask Bapji yourself!’” Bhuribai was seventy and she called me “Bapji”—“Go, ask Bapji.”

So I have come to you, said Kalidas. “She tells me nothing; she just smiles! And when I was leaving she said, ‘You have understood nothing! I have understood.’”

I said: she is right, because I explained meditation as non-doing. And you went and told her, “Bhuribai, come do meditation!” Of course she would laugh: what is there to do in meditation! When it is non-action, how can it be done! I explained that meditation is becoming silent; she must have thought, instead of becoming silent in a crowd, it is easier to be silent in my own room. So she understood correctly. And truly, she does not need to meditate. She knows silence, though she would not call it “meditation,” because meditation has become a scriptural word. She is a simple village woman.

After she returned from that camp, she had this sutra written on her hut by someone:
How did you come to know of this sutra, Vedant Bharati?

“Silence is the means, silence the goal; in silence, silence dissolves.
Silence is the wisdom of understanding; when one understands, one falls silent.”

Silence is the means; silence is the end. And in silence, silence itself is absorbed. Silence is the intelligent understanding. If you want to understand, there is only one thing worth understanding—silence. Understand, and you become silent. And understand that the understanding is to become silent. Silence is the wise understanding.

Her disciples said to me, “She doesn’t listen to us. You please tell Bai; she will listen to you—she will never refuse you. Whatever you say, she will do. Please tell her to have the experience of her life written down. She cannot write, being unlettered. But whatever she has known, let it be written. Now she is old; the time to go is nearing. Let it be written. Those who will come later will benefit.”

I said, “Bai, why don’t you have it written?” She said, “Bapji, if you say so, all right. When I come to the next camp, you yourself inaugurate it. I will bring it written.”

At the next camp her disciples waited with great eagerness. She had a little chest brought with a book inside, locked. She brought the key. Her disciples carried the chest on their heads and said to me, “Please open it.” I opened it. Out came a tiny booklet! Ten or fifteen pages, a small book, perhaps three inches long, two inches wide. And the pages were black, not even white. All black! Nothing written.

I said, “Bhuribai, you have written wonderfully! When others write, they blacken a page a little; you wrote in such a way that you left not a speck of white. You wrote and wrote and wrote!”

She said, “Only you can understand; these people simply can’t. I tell them—look: others write a little. They are educated; they can only write a little. I am uneducated, so I wrote it all! I left no space. And why have anyone else write? So I myself kept pressing and rubbing, pressing and rubbing—made the entire book black! Now you inaugurate it!”

I did inaugurate it. Her disciples were astonished. I said, “This is scripture. This is the scripture of scriptures!”

Among the Sufis there is a book; it is a blank book. They call it “the book of books.” But its pages are white. Bhuribai’s book goes even beyond that; its pages are black. That Sufi book is very famous. Traditionally, the master gives it to the disciple, and the Sufis also “read” that book. You will say, what on earth do they read? Even blank pages can be read. Keep looking at a blank page, looking and looking, and slowly you will become blank.

Bodhidharma—one of Buddha’s supreme disciples; not a contemporary, he came a thousand years later, yet one of the supreme disciples—sat facing a wall for nine years. The wall must have tired, but Bodhidharma did not. He kept looking, kept looking. A bare wall! The mind must have panicked. The mind must have run away, saying, “You sit; I’m leaving!” When the mind left, only then did Bodhidharma turn away from the wall, and he laughed a lot. It is said that Bodhidharma laughed for seven days. People asked, “What happened?” He said, “I was watching to see who would win—would I win, or would the mind win? I told the mind, ‘As long as you need to churn, churn. I will look at the wall, and I will just go on looking at the wall.’ The mind got bored, got tired, got panicky. Of course it did. It ran away.”

This is exactly the process of meditation: sit. Close your eyes. Bodhidharma sat before a white wall and closed his eyes. Looking at a white wall is like closing the eyes. But Bhuribai’s book goes beyond both—the Sufis’ book and Bodhidharma’s wall. When you close your eyes you will first see darkness—it will be black. Close your eyes and become silent, and at first there is darkness—only darkness. Do not be afraid. Keep looking, keep looking, keep looking. Wait. Be patient. Do not get bored. You do not get bored; let the mind get bored. The day the mind gets bored, it breaks. Your connection with it is snapped. And in that instant there is light. All darkness vanishes.

When the mind is gone, the covering that lay over the light is removed. As if someone had placed a rock and stifled a spring; the rock is removed, the spring bursts forth. As if someone had covered a lamp with a vessel; lift the vessel and the light blazes out. It is Diwali.

Bhuribai would not say anything. If someone went to ask—“What should we do?”—she would put a finger to her lips and gesture: “Be silent. There is nothing else to do.” This is what she has said in this sutra—

“Silence is the means, silence the goal; in silence, silence dissolves.
Silence is the wisdom of understanding; when one understands, one falls silent.”

Her love for me was unfathomable—such that it would put me in difficulty. When I would sit to eat, it was difficult to eat, because she would sit beside me. And things from my plate would begin to slide away—she would pick them up. Whatever I just broke off to taste—gone, vanished! It would take hours to eat, because then more had to be brought. I would barely tear off a mouthful of bread and—there, the bread was gone; it had become prasad! She would take a bit as prasad and then her devotees, seated in a row, would receive it—the bread would be distributed. I would take a small piece of vegetable—there, the vegetable dish went! Two hours, three hours would pass.

Once, during mango season, I held a camp, and Bhuribai came. She brought two baskets full of mangoes. I said, “What will I do with so many mangoes? One mango, two mangoes are plenty.”

She said, “You don’t know, Bapji—this will become prasad!”

I got a bit nervous: this prasad is going to be a problem. And her twenty-five or thirty devotees were present; they all came, and the prasad began! She would place a mango at my mouth; before I could take even a proper sip of the mango, it became prasad—it was gone! And there was such a hurry to distribute the prasad—to get it to those twenty-five people—that if it took a bit longer, the mango would squirt; so the juice would spray—over my face, over my clothes—everything became mango! Perhaps not even a whole mango went down my throat. Those two baskets became prasad! She herself would taste and then it would be distributed among the devotees. I said to her, “Bhuribai, during mango season I will never again hold a camp. This is a great nuisance!”

But she did not care; she drenched me completely in mango juice. Her love was wondrous! In her own way, unique. She will not have to return to the world. She has gone forever. “In silence, silence dissolves.” She has dissolved. The stream has merged into the ocean. She did nothing—she simply remained silent. And whoever came to her home, she served them. She served anyone—and silently, in silence.

She was a marvelous woman. In India there are some famous women, like Anandamayi, but there is no comparison with Bhuribai. Fame is one thing; experience another.

This sutra is lovely. Keep it in mind. If you understand this sutra, nothing else remains to be understood.

Yog Pritam’s song, Vedant Bharati, will be useful to you—

Awaken the inner melody and something will happen;
light the lamp of meditation and something will happen.
Let the ego burn—shine like refined gold;
kindle such a fire and something will happen.

Where do the colors of outer Holi ever last?
Celebrate the eternal spring’s festival and something will happen.
If you sow acacia, only thorns will pierce;
plant a garden of fragrance and something will happen.

Let all chains break, let the inner veil be drawn aside—
awaken that inner melody and something will happen.
O simple-hearted one, in friendship with strangers you are lost;
cling to the Beloved and something will happen.

Awaken the inner melody and something will happen;
light the lamp of meditation and something will happen.
Let the ego burn—shine like refined gold;
kindle such a fire and something will happen.

Chandrakant! The very talk of understanding is mistaken. What is there to understand here? Meditation isn’t a matter of understanding. And every word of mine is dipped, soaked, in meditation. Drink it!

These talks of understanding and the like are childish. Understanding belongs to the mind; drinking belongs to the heart. If you drink, you will be fulfilled. With more and more understanding, only junk piles up.

There is nothing here to understand—there is something here to drown in. This is wine—pure wine! Not of grapes, of the soul. This is not a temple; this is a tavern.

Those who sit near me—do not mistake them for ordinary religious folk. Those you find in temples and mosques—they are not these. These are revelers, rinds, topers. They are drinkers. They have gathered to drink. Here the color is different, the style is different. If you raise the matter of understanding, you will miss. Understanding happens through logic; drinking happens through love.

Who has ever understood by understanding? Yes, the one who loved—he understood. Understanding follows love of its own accord, like a shadow follows you.

Only love can understand. And those who have said “love is blind” are mad. Lust is blind; infatuation is blind. Love is an eye—the innermost eye. Do not call love blind.

Lust is certainly blind—it is of the body. Attachment too is blind—it is of the mind. But love belongs to the soul. Where could blindness be there! Where could darkness be there! There it is only eyes, only vision. That is why the one who attains it we call a seer, one who has eyes.

You ask: “When will I understand you?”

Arrey, understand now! When? Who knows anything of tomorrow? I may remain, you may not. You may remain, I may not. Both may remain, and yet companionship may be lost. At which turn we part, where the roads diverge—at what moment, who knows! The future is unknown. Don’t ask “when,” ask “now.”

All the great sutra-texts of this land begin with “now.” The Brahma-sutra begins: Atha to brahma-jijñāsa—Now, therefore, the inquiry into Brahman! Narada’s Bhakti-sutra begins: Atha to bhakti-jijñāsa—Now, therefore, the inquiry into devotion! “Now”—not “when.” “Atha to!” In that one word there is great essence: Now!

So much time has passed saying “when, when”; how much you have wasted! For births upon births you have been asking—when. Drop the “when.” Learn the language of “now.”

Jesus said to his disciples: Do you see these lilies, blooming by the wayside? Do you see their beauty! Even Solomon, King Solomon, in all his raiment studded with diamonds and jewels, was not so beautiful as these innocent, naked flowers—the lilies, these poor flowers!

A disciple asked: Master, what is their secret?

Jesus said: They live in the now. For them there is no past yesterday, no coming tomorrow. Today is everything. This is the secret of their beauty. You too live like the lilies—and all mysteries will be revealed, all veils will be lifted.

Let the veil be lifted now from the face of God, but if you ask “when,” you miss. The mind always asks “when.” It says, tomorrow. Let’s understand now, and we’ll drink tomorrow. First let us understand, then we will drink.

Arrey, drink and you will understand; who has ever drunk after understanding? How will you understand without drinking? You have never tasted wine and you say—you will understand? How will you understand? Pour from the decanter. If there is a cup, fine; if not, make a cup with the palms of your hands. Do not wait even for a goblet—saying, “When there is a vessel I will drink; when there is worthiness I will drink.” Do not even wait for a cup; make a cup of your hands. Drink! There is only one way to understand wine—drink. And there is only one way to understand God—drink.

Chandrakant, you ask: “What are the obstacles to understanding?”

This very desire to understand is the obstacle. I see no other obstacle. None has ever been there. And this obstacle is such that you will never be able to remove it.

You ask: “What is the remedy?”

If I can make you see the obstacle, the remedy is found. The obstacle is this—this hankering to understand. It is like a man who says, “I will go into the water when I have learned to swim! How can I go into the water without first learning to swim?” It sounds logical. Where will you learn to swim? On your bed? Will you flail your arms and legs on the mattress? Where will you learn? You will have to enter the water. Only by entering the water will you learn to swim.

This risk will have to be taken. You will have to learn to get into the water without knowing how to swim. Come, even if only at the shore; step in a little at a time. Let it be the shallows for now—do not go into the deep yet—but you will have to enter the water. Take a single sip; do not drain the whole decanter. I am not asking you to drink the ocean; take just a drop. That is enough. But whoever has tasted a single drop will understand the secret of the whole ocean. Whoever has thrashed his arms and legs even in the shallows will understand the knack of swimming.

Swimming is not a skill to be learned in the usual way. Keep this in mind regarding swimming. That is why, once you know it, no one can ever forget it—no one. After fifty years, after sixty years, if you go into the water again, you will find swimming just the same; not forgotten even a bit. It cannot be forgotten. Why is that?

All other things will be forgotten in sixty years. You studied geography in school, history in school; who knows how many donkeys’ names you learned! Do you remember any today? What dates you had memorized—when was Nadir Shah, and when Tamerlane, and when Genghis Khan! What madness we learned! Each date memorized. Today not a single date remains. And how hard you studied, how you crammed. But it came to nothing, because it was not natural.

No one forgets swimming. There is a reason. Swimming is a natural phenomenon. In the mother’s womb the child floats in water; for nine months he floats in water. A Japanese psychologist succeeded in teaching six-month-old infants to swim. And now he is teaching three-month-old infants. And he says that even a one-day-old child can swim. He will teach him. When a six-month-old can learn, and three-month-olds are beginning to learn, what difficulty remains? Perhaps a one-day-old will learn even more quickly, because he will not yet have forgotten. He has just come from the mother’s womb; he has been floating in water.

A second psychologist in France, when a child is born from the mother’s womb, immediately places him in a tub—of warm, tepid water. And he was astonished to discover how indescribably delighted the child is.

You will be surprised to know that this psychologist—one of his associates is my sannyasin; his daughter is my sannyasin—has, for the first time in the history of the human race, brought forth babies who are not born crying, but laughing. He has delivered thousands of babies. He serves as a midwife. He has devised a very new arrangement.

The first thing he does the moment the baby is born is to lay him on the mother’s belly; he does not cut the umbilical cord. Usually the first thing we do is cut the cord. He does not cut the cord first; he lays the baby on the mother’s belly. Because the baby has just come from the belly—do not break that so quickly. Outside too he lays him on the mother’s belly, and the baby does not cry. There is such an intimate bond with the mother’s belly: just now he was inside, now he is outside—but still connected to the mother. And he does not cut the cord immediately. Until the baby begins to breathe on his own, he does not cut the cord.

Our habit and practice so far has been to cut the cord at once; then the baby is forced to breathe. He has to take his first breath in panic, because as long as he is connected by the cord he shares the mother’s breath; he has no need to breathe separately. And all his nasal passages and the tubes from the nostrils to the lungs are filled with mucus, because he has never breathed before! So cutting the cord suddenly throws him into panic. For a few moments you leave him in such restlessness. In that turmoil babies cry, shout, scream. And we think they scream because this is the breathing process; otherwise how will they breathe? And if the baby does not cry, the doctor hangs him upside down so that somehow he will cry. If he still does not cry, he slaps him so that he cries! The baby must cry. If he cries, the mucus will flow, his nostrils will clear, breath will come.

But this is forcing breath. The lie begins—even from the very start! The mistake begins at the beginning. Hypocrisy begins. You did not allow him even to breathe naturally! You made even the breath artificial, by force. You frightened the child.

What a welcome! What a gift you gave! What respect you showed! You hung him upside down, slapped him, taught him to cry; now all his life slaps will fall, he will be hung upside down, he will do headstands. He has already become topsy-turvy! And he will weep all his life—now for this pretext, now for that. A smile will become difficult in his life. And if it appears, it will be false, imposed. Inside there will be tears.

This psychologist discovered a different process. He lays the baby on the mother’s belly. The baby begins to breathe slowly. As the baby begins to breathe slowly and keeps feeling the warmth of the mother’s belly—and the mother too feels good, because the belly has emptied at once; when the baby lies on top, the belly again feels full. She does not feel utterly vacant.

Then everything proceeds gently. What is the hurry? Otherwise the whole life will be haste, running. When the baby begins to breathe, then he cuts the cord. Then he lays the child in a tub so that he does not forget the flavor of the womb; so that he does not forget the language of the womb. In the tub he mixes exactly those chemical elements that are in the mother’s womb. They are exactly what are in the ocean. The water of the ocean and the water of the mother’s womb are exactly alike.

On this basis scientists have discovered that the first birth of the human race must have happened in the ocean, like a fish. That is why the Hindu notion that one of God’s incarnations was the fish incarnation is meaningful. Perhaps the first avatar—matsya avatar, like a fish. Then, little by little, Narasimha avatar—half man, half animal. And perhaps even now man is half man, half animal. Even now the Narasimha avatar is underway! Man has not yet become fully human. A full human being is a Buddha. Not all become fully human.

So he lays the newborn in the tub. And he was astonished to find that the newborn, lying in the tub, becomes very cheerful, smiles. He does not turn on bright light in the room all at once. The whole process of birth happens in soft light, in candlelight—so that the baby’s eyes are not hurt.

In our hospitals there are very strong bulbs, fluorescent tubes. Just think: nine months he remained in darkness in the mother’s belly, and all at once fluorescent tubes...! You will give him spectacles. Half the world is wearing glasses. Tiny children are having to wear glasses. This is the doctors’ kindness! You will make who knows how many blind! The fibers of a newborn’s eyes are very delicate. He opens his eyes for the first time. Let him get acquainted gently. Teach the lessons gradually.

A distant, dim candlelight. Then slowly, slowly he increases the light—little by little—so that the baby’s eyes consent, accommodate.

This is the process of giving a natural birth. This child’s life will be of another kind in many ways. He will be saved from many illnesses. His eyes may remain healthy forever, and there will be a smile in his life that is natural. And teaching this child to swim will be very easy, completely easy.

Swimming is remembering a language that was forgotten. We knew it in the mother’s womb, then we forgot. That is why swimming comes quickly; it doesn’t take long. And once it comes, it is never forgotten. After that we become conscious of it. But you do have to enter the water.

Logic will say: first learn to swim, then go into the water. Perhaps driving a car can be taught without taking it onto the road—but swimming cannot be taught that way.

In an American university they devised a system to teach driving without taking the car on the road, because of course there is danger on the road. A person learning to drive can do anything dangerous—take someone’s life, crash into someone; and even if he doesn’t, so many others are racing around half-unconscious, they might crash into him. That is why a learner has to hang the letter “L” on his car—Learning. It is not for him; it is for those racing on all sides: be a little careful! Save this poor fellow! He is new, still learning, a novice.

So they devised an arrangement. In a big hall, roads are on the walls—as if a film were running. Films run on the walls: on one wall a film is running, on another wall another film is running. In one film cars are speeding this way; in the other, cars are speeding that way. People are walking, people are coming, people are going. On the front wall, at a crossing, a policeman stands. That too is a film. People are passing, and this man sits in his car, and the car is on a platform above the floor. The wheels are turning. He is driving. He is doing everything, but he is going nowhere. He is in the room. The car too stands still. But people pass on all sides and a full scene is created. Someone comes right in front; he must save the car. All of it is happening on film. These are three-dimensional films, so it seems as if someone has come right in front and gone by. He feels a collision is about to happen! No one is coming and no one is going. This is the method they have invented to teach driving. It is a good method.

But I think this method will not work for swimming. However many waves you raise on the walls, and however much this man moves his arms thinking “now I’m drowning, now I’m drowning,” will you be able to fool him? Even if the film is three-dimensional so that he actually starts to dive, he will still know—what dive! I’m lying on my pillows and mattress. Though water seems to be flowing all around; ocean everywhere, waves rising—now drowned, now drowned—but he will still know: where am I drowning!

In a car it can be taught like this, because a car is artificial; so an artificial arrangement can be made. But swimming is natural. Therefore it can be learned only through a natural process.

And what I am teaching you is also like swimming—not like driving a car. This is to cross the ocean of becoming; this is swimming.

You ask: “When will I understand you?”

If you set out to understand, then never. If you are ready to drink—then now.

“What are the obstacles to understanding?”

There aren’t many obstacles—there is one obstacle: the craving to understand without drinking. To drink, you need a little courage, some daring. And the first time you drink wine, it tastes bitter. When you drink truth, that too tastes bitter. That is why the Sufis have compared truth to wine—and rightly so.

Do not think, reading Umar Khayyam’s rubáiyát, that he is speaking of wine. He is speaking of truth. Truth too, when you drink it the first time, tastes bitter. Then slowly the taste is learned—but only by drinking.

The whole world is swaying in the goblet of this ecstasy—
You too, come, drink the wine of love in this tavern.
Sitting among the revelers, we too are nodding our heads;
In losing there is delight—what is there in gaining?
The one who pours is big-hearted—why be stingy in drinking?
What’s the virtue? Drink and see—what use in explanations?
This is a vintage distilled from the Buddhas’ grapes, the finest wine—
If your heart allows, take a plunge into this goblet.
What saffron, what musk, brother—here laughter and spring are infused;
Drink a little—let it catch—be counted among the moths to the flame.
Such a mixture, dear, you will never have tasted;
If you see the cup brimming over, sway—let your heart dance in the tavern.

Drink—you will become a melody in the song of life.
Yog Pritam wrote and sent me this poem. It was meant to be sent to you; it was sent to me! I give it to you. I offer it to you.

These melodious words bring tears to the eyes. Lord, now seat me at your feet; let me taste the great death only in your refuge—this is the prayer.
So be it, Chitranjan! So it shall be!
Live here, die here. Live in this ecstasy, die in this ecstasy. Then death is no longer death; then death is mahasamadhi, mahaparinirvana.
This is what I want: that not a single one of my sannyasins dies. Death will happen—yet let him not die. Let him die awake, die dancing, die consciously. Then the body will dissolve. Dust will fall back into dust. It gets tired; it should fall—earth needs rest. Then it will rise again and become someone else’s body. But the consciousness within you is neither ever born nor does it ever die.
First learn the art of living—joyful, drenched in nectar. Then from that the art of dying will arise. Because death is not the end of life; it is the peak of life. Death is life’s final height. Not an end—life’s fragrance. For those who have not known life, it is an end. And for those who have known life—it is a new beginning—the great Life.
Chitranjan, so it will be. So it must be. Not only yours—this should be the prayer of every sannyasin. This is the prayer.
And my whole endeavor is to make you drink; to give you what I have received. Do not be miserly in receiving. Hold out your bowl and fill it. I am not being miserly in giving. Do not miss in taking.
And remember, often we have become stingy even in receiving. We have become stingy in giving. We have learned the language of stinginess; we have become stingy even in taking. We pick and choose—“take this, leave that.” No, it won’t do this way. This is not the way of the moth that gives itself to the flame.
Take it whole. Only the whole can be taken, because what I am saying is indivisible truth. Ninety-five percent won’t do—one hundred percent.
That is all for today.