Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #6

Money has a utility; meditation has no utility. Meditation is an end in itself—like love. Someone asks, “Why should I love?” What answer could there be? Love! There is no question of “why”; no question of motive; it is an inner fragrance. As a flower has fragrance—there is no “why” about it. When the flower of the heart blossoms, the fragrance of love arises. You cannot ask, “Why life?”...

It will be simpler to think like this: when there is suffering, you can ask “why,” “what is the cause?” But when there is joy, you neither ask nor can you ask, “Why joy? What’s the cause?” When you are ill, you certainly go to the physician and ask, “What is the cause of this illness?” But when you are healthy, have you ever gone to a doctor to ask, “What is the cause of my health? Why?” No; health has no cause.

“Health” is a very lovely word. It means: to be established in oneself. You have come to rest in your own being. As it is, so it rests! Beyond this there is nothing; there is no destination.

Love has no destination; love is a wave, not a shore.

The one who asks, “What is love’s destination?” has not understood love at all. And “meditation” is the name of love for the Divine. Meditation means the ultimate summit of love. When love happens for a person—that is love. And when love happens for this vast existence—that is meditation. Call it prayer. Call it worship. Call it love. Call it meditation. It is only a difference of words.

In love the ego disappears. Even when love happens between two people, the clash of egos between them ceases. And when a person’s love is for the Infinite, for the All, for the Whole—then where can ego remain? As a drop is lost in the ocean, so the person is lost.

Love has no destination; love is a wave, not a shore.

You ask: “Why meditation?” You have not understood the meaning of meditation. Meditation is not an object; meditation is your health—meditation is not a disease.

Any pretext will do... these are all pretexts—meditation, prayer, worship, adoration—all pretexts, occasions. The point is to dive. To take the plunge. And in such a way that there is nowhere left to return to. A plunge such that the diver himself dissolves.

Ramakrishna used to say: there was a fair on the seashore. Among those standing on the shore a dispute arose... Great pundits, priests, learned men had gathered at the fair.

The world is strange! In the muddle of fairs, pundits and priests, so-called sadhus and saints—what for do they turn up?

Look at the Kumbh fair! Processions of sadhus come marching in. The saints’ akharas! First of all—saints’ “akharas”? If it were wrestlers’ akharas, it would make sense. Saints’ akharas! As if there is to be some brawl. And brawls do happen. One akhara grapples with another—over who should bathe first! Spears are raised. Those who gather like this are not saints; otherwise what would saints have to do with fairs and crowds? Wherever they are, there is God. Why would they go to the Kumbh mela? For what? For what reason?

But fairs gather crowds of hypocrites, tricksters, hollow people. No doubt that fair had them too. Ramakrishna says that among the pundits a great dispute broke out: How deep is the ocean?

Try finding a thing on which pundits will not quarrel... It’s hard to find anything that won’t spark a dispute! On every possible thing a dispute arises.

The pundit is eager for controversy. Quarreling is just another way of fighting. Now that swords no longer flash, arguments are brandished! It’s the same thing—cutting off the other’s head. Whether you cut with a sword or with logic—violence it is—surfacing anew in a subtler form.

And consider the absurdity: the very ocean you’ve never entered—you stand on the shore—how will you ever know its depth? What method could there be?

Ramakrishna tells this story again and again: two dolls of salt, seeing the crowd, had come to the fair. They heard the debate. They said: Wait! We’ll go and find out. How else will it be settled? Sitting on the bank, how will you measure the ocean’s depth? We’ll go, we’ll take a plunge, and we’ll be right back!

The two salt dolls plunged in. The people waited—and waited. The fair ran for months—then it dispersed—people went home. The dolls did not return. They could not return. They were dolls of salt; they dissolved in the ocean. They were made of the ocean; they were salt, so born of the ocean, part of the ocean, and they were dissolved in the ocean itself.

The depth was found, but the one who had gone to take it was lost. No one returned to report. Those who stood on the shore—they remained, but they did not learn the depth. The dispute went on and on. Nets of words were woven, but how could the depth be known! The one who came to know the depth—he himself disappeared.

It is a pretext for disappearing. A pretext for finding that Supremely Beloved. “Ek Omkar Satnam!” The One alone is—call it whatever name you like: Omkar, Allah, Ram, Rahim, Rahman—whatever delights you, say that. But you must become one with the One, be utterly absorbed. And apart from this absorption, the patient can find no relief.

May the Friend come—or at least a message from the Friend— may it come the way relief comes to the sick, may it come the way relief comes to the sick— may the Friend come, or at least a message from the Friend.

Clouds have gathered, the breeze is blissful, the garden hushed— if only at this moment he would come with the cup in his hands, if only at this moment he would come with the cup in his hands— may the Friend come, or at least a message from the Friend.

Such too is the splendor of your joyous assembly, O cupbearer: some reel with bliss from drinking, some depart unfulfilled, some reel with bliss from drinking, some depart unfulfilled— may the Friend come, or at least a message from the Friend.

There were days when my evening was the dawn of hope; now my state is such I burst into tears when evening comes, now my state is such I burst into tears when evening comes— may the Friend come, or at least a message from the Friend.

Alas for that time when the messenger is asking the address, and here, in the dance, your name does not rise to my lips, and here, in the dance, your name does not rise to my lips— may the Friend come, or at least a message from the Friend.

May it come the way relief comes to the sick.

These are pretexts! “May it come the way relief comes to the sick.”

Do not ask, “Why should I meditate?” That is the language of the marketplace, of the shop. “Why should I buy this thing?” It is not the language of love. It is not the language of sannyas. Meditation is an end in itself. Dive—and you will know. “Why?” But if you ask “why” beforehand, you will never be able to dive.

Throughout this whole existence there is no answer to “why.” Roses are beautiful—why? And fragrance pours from jasmine—why? And with the stars the night-blooming jasmine is suddenly redolent—why? And in the morning the sun rises and birds sing—why? And rivers run from the Himalayas toward the ocean—why?

Existence is not a riddle to be solved. Existence is a mystery to be lived. And those who raise questions get lost in philosophy’s futile puzzles.

Drop questions—be questionless. To be questionless is meditation. Where there is no thought, how can questions remain!

Where there is no thought, no question, no wavering, no desire, no urge to go anywhere, no ambition—there lies health, supreme health. Rested as it is. Rested as it is! Just settle in that space, and there is bliss, a celebration.

Yogtirth! I am delighted that you understood. I was afraid you might misunderstand. When I pat your back, of course it feels sweet—tears of joy flow from your eyes, you are overwhelmed. But give you the slightest blow and at once you bristle: your ego raises its head, you start to buzz with anger.

Yet I too am compelled: I have to steady you, and I have to strike you. Both things must be done! You are blessed that you could welcome the blow—and that Kabir’s lovely verse came to you.

Kabir’s verses are wondrous, incomparable. In these two brief lines the whole tale of master and disciple is told. “The master is the potter, the disciple the clay pot...” The master is the potter, the disciple a pot—still raw; he is being fashioned from clay, set upon the wheel. “The master is the potter, the disciple the clay pot; moment by moment he picks out the flaws.” There are many flaws to remove: pebbles and stones in the clay—these must be taken out; bits of grass mixed in—these must be taken out. Otherwise the pot will not be worthy of holding water. Yes, a pot may get made, but it will remain empty. The pot has to be filled with nectar, made into a vessel of amrita. “The master is the potter, the disciple the clay pot; moment by moment he picks out the flaws.” So every flaw must be taken out, one by one. And when flaws are removed, there is pain—like when someone drains pus from an abscess: it hurts, it aches. But there is no other way.

And there is even more pain because what the master calls a flaw, you think is pure gold! The ignorance you have been hugging to your chest has to be taken away—but you believe it is your treasure. The ego you have enthroned upon your head has to be toppled—but it has become your turban, your honor, your prestige.

Your superstitions have to be snatched away. But your superstitions, your customs, your rituals, your traditions—handed down from forefathers—these are all the capital you have.

There was a very wealthy miser. He had gold bricks, yet he ate dry crusts, wore old, threadbare clothes, and lived in a hut. He had buried the gold bricks in his garden. Every day he would dig them up to see if they were still there, then cover them with earth.

A neighbor grew suspicious: what is this—he goes there morning and evening, sometimes even at midnight, digs and looks at something! Naturally, the neighbor’s curiosity was aroused. One day he hid and watched—and was dumbfounded: gold bricks!

The miser went back after reburying them; the neighbor dug out the gold and put ordinary clay bricks in their place.

Next morning the miser removed the soil, saw the gold missing—and started beating his chest and wailing, “I’m ruined! I’m finished!”

The neighbor asked, “What happened? How are you ruined?”

He said, “I had gold bricks here; someone has stolen them and left these ordinary brick-bats!”

The neighbor said, “What difference does it make to you? Just dig these up and look at them every day. After all, all you did was look! Your whole life has gone in just looking. That’s all those bricks were worth to you—that you could dig and look. What does it matter whether they are gold or clay? Look at them and cover them up. You were not going to use them anyway. You’ll go on eating dry crusts, you’ll go on wearing those old rags.”

Even misers find a rationale. They say, “Simple living, high thinking!” They are stingy, and they use stinginess as a veil. They even draw a veil over that! They are ugly, but they veil themselves.

Have you noticed: even the ugliest woman, if she goes out veiled, people start peeking and peering! Take someone out in a burqa—woman or man—and people will stare, pause, turn back for another look.

Hide anything, and it becomes tantalizing. The fascination grows and grows. We have hidden all our uglinesses. Not only others enjoy them; gradually we too begin to savor them.

We even try to justify our superstitions as if supreme truths were hidden within them.

A very big Hindu mahatma wrote a book, “Why Hinduism?” He gives “scientific” bases for Hindu practices. What he says is astonishing—such a book could be printed even in the twentieth century! And it’s not a small book: seven hundred and fifty pages! And the author is a weighty “mahatma.” How the foolish become mahatmas!

He writes that Hindus keep a topknot (shikha) the way churches and temples fix lightning rods—so if lightning strikes, it is conducted straight into the ground. That is why Hindus keep a shikha! And by tying a knot to make it stand upright, lightning won’t strike; even if it does, it will go straight to the ground through the shikha!

What astonishing people! What foolishness, what dim-wittedness! But Hindus will be pleased: “What a marvelous explanation!”

He says Hindus wear wooden sandals (khadau) because holding them grips the big toe, and in that toe is the nerve by which celibacy is maintained. Keep the big toe pressed—and brahmacharya will be accomplished. If celibacy were that easy—just press the big toe! No need for vasectomy—just do a vasectomy of the toe! Doctors should operate on the toe, tie off the nerve; then even if you want to untie it from outside, you cannot.

But if someone tries to gold-plate our foolishness, we are delighted. “Ah! Blessed are we to be born in a Hindu home. What rishis and sages we have had! What discoveries they made!”

Hindu sadhus go around saying airplanes and atom bombs—all of it—was stolen from the Vedas; science found everything in the Vedas! “Everything is in the Vedas.”

I have sifted the Vedas from end to end. Airplanes and atom bombs are far off—there isn’t even a method to make a bicycle! And if a bicycle gets a puncture, there is no way to mend it. And the great joke is that the West “stole” it—people who know neither Sanskrit nor the Vedas discovered it. And you, fools of five thousand years, what have you been doing? Still riding bullock carts! If the method to make airplanes is written in the Vedas, why didn’t you build them?

What astonishing descendants you are of rishis who built flying machines and flew the Pushpak Vimana! You trust the stories—the Pushpak Vimana! Then why stop there? Monkeys carried mountains too; Hanumanji flew with a mountain.

There is no limit to fantasy! But if it is linked to our forefathers, our ego is linked. To feed the ego we can say anything, do anything.

A fisherman was fishing; Mulla Nasruddin stood behind him watching. He asked, “Tell me, what is the biggest fish you’ve ever caught in your life as a fisherman?”

The man said, “That is very hard to describe; hard to measure. I can only say this: when I caught the biggest fish, the whole lake dropped by one foot.”

And Nasruddin knew this fisherman very well. He had been watching him for three hours; not a single small fish had been caught. He just sat there with his line dangling!

Nasruddin knew him because one day he saw the same man at the market where fish are sold, asking a shopkeeper, “Brother, throw me four fish. I’ll pay whatever they cost.”

The shopkeeper said, “Why should I throw them? Just take them in your hand!”

He replied, “I may be an unlucky fisherman, but I won’t lie. I can go home and tell my wife, ‘I caught them.’ You throw, I’ll catch. I won’t lie. I may not catch fish, but I will speak the truth. You throw, I’ll catch—then I can say it!” This is the same man who “caught” such a big fish the lake fell by a foot! How could he give the measurements!

When people are set on lying—so long as it feeds their ego—they keep no account.

In the name of religion you keep feeding superstitions. And the master has to take all these superstitions away; only then, for the first time, will the lamp of true trust be lit in your life.

Drop the false eyes, then the real eyes can be sought. As long as you cling to false eyes, how will the real be explored or discovered?

“The master is the potter, the disciple the clay pot; moment by moment he picks out the flaws.” Every moment, hour by hour, he removes flaw after flaw—as far as the disciple consents, so far he goes. “His hand inside shapes and supports...” But from within he holds and shapes.

Have you seen a potter at work? One hand he puts inside the pot to support and shape it from within; the other hand he uses to strike from outside. He does both at once. The intelligent understand both. The foolish see only the outer blow and run away: “Why should I endure so many blows? What will come of it?”

Yogtirth, I dealt a big blow. I even said to him, “Just drop sannyas!” That is the greatest blow. Yet even that he took sweetly. He understood. Someone else would have run away; someone else would have been angry forever.

Because he received even this blow with love, it will turn to flowers upon him. “His hand inside shapes and supports; outside he gives the blow.”

“I am filled with gratitude toward you. Infinite, infinite thanks!” A disciple receives like this. A disciple does not take a blow as a blow; he takes the blow as a blessing. This is the difference between a student and a disciple.

A student cannot be struck; if you strike him, he will simply run away. A disciple can be struck; and the deeper the disciple, the deeper the blow can be. Therefore this seemingly strange thing happens: the master scolds and beats most the disciple in whom he sees the greatest possibility.

Rabindranath has mentioned an incident in his memoirs. He had an uncle, Abanindranath Tagore—one of India’s greatest painters. Among the few great painters in India’s history, Abanindranath’s name must be included. His disciple was Nandalal Bose, who later proved to be even greater.

One morning Rabindranath was chatting with his uncle over tea. Nandalal, still young then, brought a painting of Krishna. Rabindranath writes, “I had never seen such a beautiful painting of Krishna!” Rabindranath himself was a painter—along with being a great poet. And Abanindranath—what can one say!

Rabindranath’s heart skipped a beat. The painting was so alive, as if the flute would sound any moment, as if Krishna would start dancing any moment. He stood there awestruck, enchanted.

Abanindranath looked at the painting, took it in his hand, and threw it out the door. He said to Nandalal, “Is this something worth showing me? Think before you bring anything. Bring it only when it is worth showing. Even the patiya painters in Bengal can do better than this!”

In Bengal there are patiya folk painters who make Krishna panels for Janmashtami, selling them for a couple of coins. They are the poorest painters. Their job is just to paint Krishna somehow so villagers can buy and worship. Nothing more contemptuous could be said.

For Abanindranath to say to Nandalal, “Those patiya painters are better than you. They paint Krishna better than this! What have you brought? Get out!”

Rabindranath was badly shaken. He forgot that this was his uncle, an elder, and that he shouldn’t speak to him like that. Nandalal left, and Rabindranath fell upon his uncle: “This is too much! I have seen many paintings, including your Krishnas, and they are not equal to this.”

Abanindranath said, “Be quiet—and look into my eyes.” Tears were falling from his eyes.

Rabindranath was even more bewildered. “What is the matter? Why are you crying?”

He said, “I am crying because I have to be very hard on Nandalal. He has the possibility to become greater than I. You are right—his painting is better than mine. But there is more in him yet. If I keep striking, more will flower. His full potential has not yet become actual. The day I say a few words of praise, he will stop there. He will not go any further. He will think, ‘It is complete. When the master has praised me, what remains? When Abanindranath has said it, what more is there?’”

Abanindranath got up, brought back the painting he had thrown out, and said, “The painting is marvelous—but there is more in Nandalal yet. I will not say ‘marvelous’ in front of him. I still have to strike more blows. Its waters can still be clarified, greater depth can come, greater height can come.”

And the strange thing is that Nandalal locked his little hut and disappeared for three years. Again and again Rabindranath told Abanindranath, “Now say it! Was that blow necessary? You broke his heart.”

Abanindranath said, “Wait. He will return. He is a disciple, not a mere student. He will certainly return.”

Three years later Nandalal came back. He had become as poor as those patiya painters—utterly poor! His clothes were torn—the very clothes he had worn three years earlier. He fell at Abanindranath’s feet and said, “You were very compassionate to throw away my painting that day. I went village to village in Bengal, learning from any patiya painter I could find. When the master has said even patiya painters paint better than you—then surely they do! In these three years I have learned so much, lived so much, gained so much experience. What a blow you gave me—I am overwhelmed with gratitude!”

Abanindranath embraced him and said, “Now I can tell you the truth. That painting was beautiful. Look inside—there it is, hanging on my wall. Where my own Krishna hung, I took it down and put up yours. Your painting is more beautiful than mine. But I had to give one last blow. Now I can see in your eyes, in the aura around you—the event I was waiting for has happened. Now I can die at peace: at least one painter I have brought to birth. That is enough. You will carry my stream forward. You are my future. Everything rests on you. This new turn I have given to art—you are its heir.”

Then Rabindranath understood why a master strikes.

Yogtirth, you are blessed. If you keep understanding like this, you will shine—shine greatly. Otherwise we bristle; we bristle very quickly.

Only yesterday a sannyasin told me, “Day before yesterday you spoke and my father was moved; tears flowed from his eyes. Yesterday you spoke and he became very angry, furious—at once he bristled!”

I knew this would happen. The day before I supported from within; yesterday I struck from outside.

“The master is the potter, the disciple the clay pot; moment by moment he picks out the flaws. His hand inside shapes and supports; outside he gives the blow.”

But they are new here, their first time. How would they know what is going on? If they stay a few days, it will be clear what is happening. The same that happened with Nanak, the same that happened with Kabir.

To be with a living master is to be close to fire. It will burn you, and it will awaken you. Whatever is useless will burn; whatever is inessential will turn to ash; and whatever is essential will be refined and revealed. Until gold has passed through fire, it does not become pure.

Melaram Asrani! I understand your hitch, your confusion. You must be thinking Sufi dance has something to do with Islam, with Muslims. That is your misunderstanding.

Sufis have appeared among Muslims, among Hindus, among Christians, among Sikhs, among Buddhists. “Sufi” is the name of a certain color, a certain flavor. It is a name for a particular way of being. The Sufi has no alliance with Islam.

The word “Sufi” comes from “safa”—the same root from which “safai,” cleansing, comes. To be a Sufi means: to become clean and clear. Safa! Bathed, washed! Fresh from the bath. Fresh. Clean. Pure. White. Whole. As it is, so it abides!

Yes, Sufis flowered among Muslims, but don’t conclude from that that the Sufi’s boundary is the Muslim’s boundary. The Sufi has no boundary. I would call Mahavira a Sufi. I would call Nanak a Sufi. And you will be surprised: I even call Mohammed a Sufi. Mohammed came later; Sufihood has always been.

The Sufi lineage is endless. It has unfolded in different colors, different styles, in different lands, with different words. Jesus is a Sufi, and Moses too.

To be a Sufi means to be spotless within. But we get habituated to enclosing everything within religions. If someone practices yoga, we think he must be a Hindu. What has yoga to do with being a Hindu? A Muslim can practice yoga. A Christian can practice yoga. A Jain can practice yoga. A Buddhist can practice yoga.

Yoga has no essential tie to the Hindus. It is only incidental that the thread of yoga’s tradition began among the Hindus. And it is just as incidental that the great stream of Sufism flowed through Islam. But the spray spread over the whole world.

Our habit is to think in circles, to draw boundaries around everything—and that creates trouble. In doing so we have corrupted even religion. Let at least something remain that has no boundary.

This commune of mine is neither Hindu nor Muslim; neither Christian nor Sikh; neither Jain nor Buddhist. And in another sense it is all of them—together. A synthesis is happening here. So here there is no obstacle if, in a Sufi dance, the chant “Shri Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram” is sung. No obstruction at all. What difference does it make whether you say Allah or you say Ram?

Sufi means: become clean within. Whether you got clean by bathing in the Ganga, or in the Narmada, or in the Amazon—what difference does it make! Which river was it, which ghat was it—just get clean, and you are a Sufi. All my sannyasins are Sufis. True, the Sufi faqirs who arose within Islam wear green; my sannyasins wear ochre. But what difference does that make! Does it make any difference to the heart? None at all. But we get entangled in toys—in trifles.

In the twinkling of an eye people change so much, At every step they are cast into a new mold. For whom shall one search that lost paradise, When people are appeased with clay toys.

With clay toys! Someone worships an image—and gets caught. Worship no longer remains the value; the image becomes the value. And when the image becomes the value, naturally a mosque can no longer be a temple. But if worship itself is the value, then it can be in a mosque as well as in a temple. Then there is no obstacle. Bowing is what has value. Bow before the formless, bow before the form—what does it matter? But our nets are many!

I was a guest in Amritsar. The trustees of the Golden Temple invited me; since I was in Amritsar I must visit the Golden Temple. I went. As I was entering the temple I saw that all the trustees had come lovingly to welcome me, yet they seemed a little restless. I couldn’t make out why. I asked, “What is the cause of this unease?”

They said, “It doesn’t feel right to say it. Not to say it is also difficult!”

I said, “Just say it. Forget what seems good or bad—I don’t bother about such things. Say it. But don’t carry this nervousness.”

They said, “We are compelled. Forgive us. But you cannot enter the Golden Temple bareheaded. We have invited you; how can we say this to a guest! At least put on a cap. If not a cap…” A friend quickly pulled out a handkerchief: “At least tie this on.”

I said, “As you wish. Tie the handkerchief. Now that I have come, if I turn back, you will be hurt. Tie it.” I entered the temple with the handkerchief tied on my head. “Now that I am here, I will go along with this condition of yours too. But do you think that by putting a turban or a kerchief on the head, respect is assured? Is honor and dishonor such a flimsy affair—solved so simply?” But “people are appeased with clay toys.”

I put the kerchief on my head; they were delighted, very happy. They had been very troubled: “Dishonor is about to happen!”

Then as they led me in, one of them said, “You will be happy to know that here we make no distinction between Hindu and Muslim. Both can come.”

I said, “Drop this nonsense. Without a head covering one cannot come, and you talk about Hindu and Muslim! And when you say, ‘We make no distinction between Hindu and Muslim,’ why say at all that Hindus can come and Muslims can come? The distinction is already made. Otherwise who is a Hindu? Who is a Muslim? What Hindu—what Muslim! You have already divided.”

Nanak had no such division. He even went to Mecca, to the Kaaba. And just think of Nanak—and of these guardians of the Golden Temple who claim his lineage—how vast the difference!

Nanak slept with his feet toward the stone of the Kaaba. Naturally the same kind of priests must have been there as these were. They became very agitated—the priests of the Kaaba! Someone comes and sleeps with his feet toward the sacred stone! “Insult is happening.” Just as my entering bareheaded would be an insult, then surely placing one’s feet is an insult. If you lie with your feet toward an image, or toward a temple, or toward the stone of the Kaaba, then naturally…!

I said to them, “Reflect a little—you claim to be followers of Nanak. I merely didn’t put on a cap. And the truth is, no child is born wearing a cap. I’ve never heard of it. So God sends everyone without a cap. Caps and the like are our toys. You wouldn’t have let Mahavira in at all; he would have come naked. At least I am wearing clothes! And Mahavira would not have tied a kerchief either—that I can assure you. For if a man stands naked, and then ties on a kerchief—how would it look? Like a naked man wearing a necktie! Utterly absurd—if you’re naked, what is the cap for! It would be like this:

One day someone came to visit Mulla Nasruddin— a couple. They knocked. Mulla opened the door a crack and peeked. In that instant, they too saw—he was stark naked, but wearing a cap! Now they couldn’t very well turn around. And Mulla had to say, ‘Come, come in!’ So awkwardly they entered.

The wife stood hiding behind her husband—what to do now! Mulla said, ‘Do sit down!’ How could both sit on one chair? The wife felt great embarrassment: this man is standing naked. Finally the husband couldn’t hold back and said, ‘Why are you naked? What’s the matter?’

Mulla said, ‘The truth is, no one ever comes to see me at this hour. It’s hot, and what’s the point of being soaked in sweat? And it’s my own home—if I can’t be naked in my own home, then what kind of home is it! It’s not as if I’m naked in the marketplace. I’m naked behind a closed door.’

Even then the wife couldn’t resist. Peeking from behind her husband she asked, ‘All right, it’s hot, be naked. But why the cap?’

Mulla said, ‘Well, if someone happens to drop in unexpectedly, as you have—at least let me keep the cap on!’”

If you had put a cap or a kerchief on Mahavira, it would have seemed just like that—absolutely absurd. And Mahavira would not permit it.

In that sense I am a simple man. All right—cap, then cap it is. No problem. Handkerchief? Then a handkerchief it is. But if you cannot let me enter the Golden Temple without a kerchief, then what will you say of those priests who said to Nanak, “You are sleeping with your feet toward the sacred stone of the Kaaba. Aren’t you ashamed—being a saint, a sadhu, a faqir…!”

You are doing the same. And I have not committed such a great offense. Nanak’s “offense” was far greater.

But what did Nanak say to those priests? “Then turn my feet toward that direction where God is not. I see God everywhere. I must point my feet somewhere! Since He is everywhere, what insult, what honor now! In the feet is He, around me is He. He is in me, and He is in you. I must point my feet somewhere. Even when I place my feet on the ground to walk, that too is God. To place my feet there is to place them on God.”

They had no reply. They stood silent.

I said, “Think a little. Am I with Nanak—or are you with Nanak? If, inside, I were to lie down with my feet toward your Guru Granth Sahib, what would you do? You would go utterly mad. You are delighted merely that I have put a kerchief on my head!

People are appeased with clay toys.

Melaram Asrani, that is exactly your difficulty.

You ask: ‘In the Sufi dance the chant Shri Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram is sung. What kind of Sufi dance is this?’

Here the emphasis is on the dance. If, in the dance, the dancer is lost, the dance becomes Sufi. Let me repeat: if in the dance the dancer disappears, drowns, becomes absorbed—only the dance remains, the dancer does not; if in the song the singer is lost—only the song remains. Then, instantly, cleanliness descends. A shower of nectar pours.

That is why it is called Sufi dance—because it cleanses, it washes. It rinses out the rubbish in one sweep.

Now, by what pretext you do it—chant Allahu, or chant Jai Ram Shri Ram. This is simply the Hindi translation of Allah—nothing else. It is Allah in Hindi.

Lift your eyes a little and look into the sky. We have partitioned the earth. We have partitioned man. Glimpse, just for a moment, the indivisible sky.

Beyond the stars there are worlds yet more. Love still has many tests to pass.

You have known love, but within a tight boundary—a puddle. And where there is a puddle, there is stench. Whether the puddle is Hindu or Muslim, Sikh or Jain—wherever there is a boundary, there is staleness.

Rise a little above boundaries. Here all boundaries are being broken. Here we immerse boundaries—not Ganesh idols!

Beyond the stars there are worlds yet more. Love still has many tests to pass.

These skies are not empty of life. Here there are hundreds of caravans yet more.

Do not be content with the realm of color and fragrance. There are other gardens, other nests as well.

If one nest is lost, what sorrow? There are other stations for sighs and laments.

You are a royal falcon; flight is your work. Before you lie many other skies.

Do not remain entangled in this day and night, For there are other times and spaces for you.

Gone are the days when I was alone in the assembly; Here now there are others who share my secret.

Look a little beyond the limits—beyond the stars—there all is one.

When the first American reached the moon, do you know what feeling arose in him? When he looked toward the earth— from the moon the earth shines as the moon shines from the earth. He saw the luminous earth! And in his heart only one feeling arose: “My earth!” Not “my America.” From that distance, where is America? “My earth”—and in that earth Russia was included, China was included, India was included. There was no map with lines. The earth was one. And so lovely—he had never imagined she would shine like the moon.

The earth shines just as the moon shines. Once you stand on the moon, the moon no longer shines; it looks like the earth. For the moon has no light of its own. The sun’s rays fall on the moon and are reflected, hence the glow—like rays rebounding from a mirror. They are not the mirror’s; they come from the lamp, but bounce back. So rays also rebound from the earth.

Standing on the moon, the earth appears so radiant—like a huge diamond burning with light! The earth is much larger than the moon—so a very large moon! And only one feeling arose in him: “My earth! My beloved earth!”

If a religious person does not have even this much awareness, how will you call him religious? You needn’t go to the moon for it.

Islam is mine too. Christianity is mine too. Hinduism is mine too. Jainism is mine too. Sikhism is mine too. All are mine. My religion. “Es dhammo sanantano!” Buddha says: this eternal dharma—consider all these as its branches, its leaves.

Say Ram or say Rahim—the question is not what you say; the question is: in saying it, into what realm did you enter? If this Ram, this Allah, carries you beyond the stars—you are a Sufi.

Beyond the stars there are worlds yet more. Love still has many tests to pass.

Melaram Asrani! You still have a few more examinations in love to pass. You got anxious just hearing: “What kind of Sufi dance is this!” This is exactly what a Sufi dance is. This is how it is. You got entangled in the word. You did not look at those who were dancing—intoxicated, absorbed. You did not see their ecstasy, their self-forgetfulness. You worried that a Sufi dance—and the chant “Shri Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram”! “It doesn’t fit!” As if in a temple a verse of the Quran were being recited! But blessed will be the day when Quranic verses rise in temples and the Gita is chanted in mosques. That day the earth will truly be fortunate.

For now the temple is ready to cut the throat of the mosque; the mosque is ready to reduce the temple to ashes. And these are “religious” people! The Gita is eager to burn the Quran; the Quran is eager to erase the Gita! Religious?

Religion is one—and can only be one, because truth is one. These are politics that have divided you.

All these caravans are moving toward the same One. The paths differ a little, the vehicles differ, but the destination is one.

These skies are not empty of life. Here there are hundreds of caravans yet more.

Do not be content with the realm of color and fragrance. There are other gardens, other nests as well.

Open your eyes a little and see. This garden—yours—is not the only garden. There are other gardens too, where other flowers bloom. Don’t be blind.

One who has understood the Gita—if he cannot understand the Quran, know that he has not understood the Gita either. He has failed the test. He did not pass the examination of love. And the one who understood the Quran—if he cannot understand the Upanishads, know that he has not understood the Quran either. What has he understood then!

The languages were different, the gestures different, the pointing fingers different—but the moon they point to is one. Thousands of fingers have risen—of Buddha, of Mahavira, of Kabir, of Nanak, of Mohammed, of Jesus, of Zarathustra.

If one nest is lost, what sorrow? There are other stations for sighs and laments.

The day all these homes are yours—the temples, mosques, gurdwaras, churches—what difference does it make if a temple falls? Pray in a mosque then; worship in a mosque. If a mosque burns, what difference—say your namaz in a temple, worship in a temple.

If even a religious person is narrow, then what is the difference between religious and irreligious? There can be only one difference: that narrowness falls, discrimination falls.

You are a royal falcon; flight is your work. And you, a falcon, crawl upon the earth—like worms and insects!

You are a royal falcon; flight is your work. Before you lie many other skies.

Fly. And the higher you soar, the more new heights will open.

Do not remain entangled in this day and night, For there are other times and spaces for you.

Don’t keep yourself tied up in these little things—these days and nights, these daily rituals—don’t remain lost in them.

Do not remain entangled in this day and night, For there are other times and spaces for you.

There is other time, other space, other skies—so much more remains. Seek—and the search is endless.

Gone are the days when I was alone in the assembly; Here now there are others who share my secret.

Here there are only friends; here there are no enemies.

“Here there are others who share my secret.” Others too have known. No one has taken God on contract. In no name, in no scripture has God been exhausted. Religions have come and gone; others will come and go. But the eternal truth remains steady. Many religions came and went; they were only shadows, reflections—figures drawn upon emptiness with words, gestures. Fingers kept rising and falling—the moon remains where it is.

Mahavira came, Buddha came, Zarathustra came, Lao Tzu came, Meera came, Sahajo came, Chaitanya came. They kept coming, kept awakening—but that to which they awaken you is one. And when you awaken to that One, call yourself a yogi if you like. Yoga means to be joined, to be yoked—to be joined with the Divine.

Or call yourself a Sufi. Sufi means: the one who has become clean, whose mind’s grime has been washed away. Then whichever name you fancy, take it. Names make no difference. How long will you remain like children, tangled in clay toys!

People are appeased with clay toys. Wake up. Look at the vastness a little. Keep breaking your narrowness day after day. However much it hurts, the narrowness has to be broken—only then will you know life’s supreme truth. Without knowing it there is no freedom, no liberation.

It is said that a prophet, Ismail—peace be upon him—whenever he ate, would seat someone beside him and feed him; he never ate alone. One day he sat to eat, the cloth laid out, but no one was there to share. He waited. Then he saw a seventy-year-old man. Joyfully he ran, invited him, had him wash for the meal. But as they began, the old man started eating without saying Bismillah.

The prophet stopped his hand before the morsel reached his mouth and said, “I will not let you eat without Bismillah. Begin with God’s name.”

The old man refused. “I am an atash-parast, a fire-worshipping Zoroastrian. I do not accept Islam. So if you wish, feed me or don’t; I will not say Bismillah.”

Just then a revelation descended from the sky: “O prophet, We have been feeding this man for seventy years. We have never asked him to take Our name, nor has he ever said Bismillah. Why then do you stop him from eating? For just one day of feeding, you lay down a condition!”

Hearing this, the prophet wept and said to the man, “Forgive me—and eat.”

Religion has no condition, no boundary. Say Ram, say Rahim, say Allah, say Omkar; or say nothing—remain silent. Worship fire—it too is His symbol. Worship water—it too is His symbol. Everything is His symbol, because He alone is—and there is nothing else.

Satyaprem! Why not! I am only a mirror. My sole use is to remind you of you. The light that appears to you in me is your own light. You are not aware of it; I am. That’s the small difference. You are asleep; I am awake. You are that, I am that. You have your back turned to yourself; I have turned to face myself. You are averted; I have become turned toward. But the matter is exactly the same.

Now, if you stand with your back to a lamp, naturally the lamp won’t be seen. Just turn a little—and the lamp will be seen. The light is hidden within you too. Life itself is light. Life itself is God.

You ask: “Will I ever attain that light?” Why ‘ever’—you can attain it now—here. It’s only a matter of turning a little.

In the heart’s mirror is the Beloved’s image; when I merely inclined my neck a little, I saw.

It’s just a small bow of the neck!

Do not ask who we are, why we sit helpless by the road. We are travelers who have lost the courage to journey.

You rose from that side; from this world we too have risen. Come, we are ready to walk along with you.

Who has leisure to fulfill love’s sacred service? You are not sitting idle, nor are we.

This is the station of succor: your wayfarers of love, after a thousand quests, have lost heart.

Ask not who we are, what our claim is—nothing, dear sir. We are beggars, sitting in the wall’s shade.

You’re tired. You have entertained many appetites, many ambitions. Each dream broke, and you became disheartened. Hence you ask, “Will I too ever have the vision of that light?” You are frightened now, afraid.

This is the station of succor: your wayfarers of love, after a thousand quests, have lost heart.

You too are a traveler of the path of love, but by chasing wrong desires you got defeated. Wrong desires are never fulfilled. If you set out to gain wealth and get it, you will still be defeated; if you don’t get it, defeated you are anyway. If you chase position and attain it, you will still lose; if you don’t, you lose in any case. For those who attained have, in truth, attained nothing.

What do you really get by getting wealth? Your inner poverty becomes more stark. What do you get by getting position? Your inner inferiority becomes more visible—like writing white chalk upon a blackboard. On a white wall, you can scarcely make it out.

A poor man’s poverty is not as evident to him as a rich man’s poverty is to him. On a black wall, white letters stand out.

Ask not who we are, what our claim is—nothing, dear sir. You’re so tired you say: don’t ask. Don’t even ask what the purpose is.

Ask not who we are, what our claim is—nothing, dear sir. We are beggars, sitting in the wall’s shade.

Beggars, sitting in the wall’s shade. “Don’t ask, sir, who we are, what we are.” Such is the exhaustion.

Therefore you say, “Will I too ever find that light?” Why not! You can find it now. Don’t stir the talk of “someday.” Into “someday” crept despair and dejection.

My emphasis is on “now”—here and now. Understand, and you can turn this very moment. No one is stopping you. Except for your despair and frustration there is no other obstacle. Let this despair drop.

Complaint is futile—what good comes of grievance? So long as life is, somehow it will be lived.

On this very hope the oppressed keeps living: from the night’s curtain, dawn too will appear.

Keep hope. One does not lose like this. “From the night’s curtain, dawn too will appear.” If there is night, morning will also be.

I long that your vision be granted to me; I wonder, will I have the strength to see?

Do not worry. If the feeling for that vision has arisen, if the longing for the sight of that light has arisen—do not worry. “I wonder, will I have the strength to see?” The strength to see will also be there; only then has this longing awakened.

Thirst arises only when water exists. If there were no water in the world, there would be no thirst. And if food did not exist, there would be no hunger. Before hunger, there is food. Before thirst, there is water.

You have seen it: the child comes into the mother’s womb, and as the child grows, the mother’s breasts begin to fill with milk. Until the child comes, the breasts do not fill. But before the child is even born, the milk has come. The child is born here—the milk has already arrived there. The milk waits. Before hunger, there is food!

From the night’s curtain, dawn too will appear.

I long that your vision be granted to me; I wonder, will I have the strength to see?

The memories of the garden-times had been set aside; who knew there would be this sheer weight upon the heart?

Alas, man, more savage than the beasts! Will there in any age be the perfection of man?

I am deeply assured by your compassionate gaze: one day or another, from that side it will turn to this side.

I know there is compassion in your gaze. I recognize your compassion. Otherwise, who gives life! Who adorns this life with so many flowers! Who fills this life with the longing to realize the Divine!

So deep within us is the longing to realize God. There is no reason for it except the Divine’s grace. We want to attain Him because He has planted within us the seed of thirst.

“I am deeply assured by your compassionate gaze: one day or another, from that side it will turn to this side.”

I have a firm trust that your eye is full of grace. “One day or another, from that side it will turn to this side”—it will turn toward me too.

Today, the suffocating darkness of the atmosphere chokes. Tomorrow, if God wills, O seeker, there will be a dawn.

But remember, “If God wills, O seeker, then there will be a dawn.” It will not happen through your wanting. It will happen by your dropping the wanting.

You say: “Will I too ever attain that light whose vision I behold in you?” Satyaprem, certainly. But one condition must be fulfilled: drop even this desire. Desire itself is the obstacle. This is the last barrier—let this too go.

Trust. Have faith. The One who has given life, and has given to life the aspiration to realize the ultimate truth—surely He has already made the arrangements. He has already arranged everything beforehand. The very name of this trust is religion.

Religion is not belief in doctrines; it is trust in the supreme compassion of existence. Therefore, do not lodge complaints.

Complaint is futile—what good comes of grievance? So long as life is, somehow it will be lived.

On this very hope the oppressed keeps living: from the night’s curtain, dawn too will appear.

I long that your vision be granted to me; I wonder, will I have the strength to see?

The memories of the garden-times had been set aside; who knew there would be this sheer weight upon the heart?

Alas, man, more savage than the beasts! Will there in any age be the perfection of man?

I am deeply assured by your compassionate gaze: one day or another, from that side it will turn to this side.

Today, the suffocating darkness of the atmosphere chokes. Tomorrow, if God wills, O seeker, there will be a dawn.

Today, breath flutters in the dark—granted. But “complaint is futile—what good comes of grievance?” Neither complain nor nurse grievances. When complaint and grievance fall from one’s life, prayer arises in that life.

But people are strangely blind! Even when they go to temple, mosque, gurudwara, they go only to complain. Even their prayer is only a form of complaint—“O Lord, do this, do that. Why did you not do thus!”

People come to me and say, “We live morally. We live simply. Then why failure? And those who are dishonest, immoral—why are they successful?” This is complaint, grievance.

Complaint is futile—what good comes of grievance. It only testifies that you still have no trust. Even your “faith” is but your desire in disguise. And what harmony can there be between trust and desire!

Even when you pray, you beg for something. There too you remain beggars.

Ask not who we are, what our claim is—nothing, dear sir. We are beggars, sitting in the wall’s shade.

There too you remain beggars. Prayer is not begging. Prayer is joy, exultation. Prayer is dance, song, celebration—a festival. Prayer is thanksgiving—gratitude.

Let there be trust, let there be prayer—surely, Satyaprem, that incomparable event will happen in your life too—the one that has happened in mine.

If it can happen in my life, it can happen in yours. We are all made of the same stuff.

In this country and beyond, the greatest misfortune that befell the history of religion is this: those in whose lives the light manifested, we tore them away from the human race. Hindus said, “They are avatara—divine descents.” Jains said, “They are Tirthankaras.” Buddhists said, “They are Buddhas.” Muslims said, “They are Prophets.” Christians said, “He is the Son of God!” We separated them from humanity. The consequence was inevitable—and it came—disastrous.

When you separate as “Tirthankara, Avatar, Son of God, Messiah, Prophet” those in whose lives the light appeared, what hope remains for the ordinary man! The ordinary man begins to think: I am just ordinary—not Son of God, not Prophet, not Tirthankara, not Avatar. Darkness is my lot; darkness is written in my fate. My night will never have a dawn. And if Mahavira attained, what’s the big deal? He was a Tirthankara. Not an ordinary man at all—he had come from the very Truth itself.

If the light arose in Jesus’ life, well, he was the Son of God! And Christians insist that God has only one son—Jesus—an only son, so that you are made to understand: don’t be under any illusion that you too are sons of God.

Muslims say, “The last Prophet has come—Muhammad. Now there shall be no more prophet.” Sikhs say, “Ten Gurus have been—the eleventh will not be.” Jains say, “Twenty-four Tirthankaras have been—the twenty-fifth will not be.” This is to break man’s back.

Do not erect such a distance between man and the awakened ones.

My whole emphasis is that I am like you. I have no specialness—neither Avatar, nor Tirthankara, nor Son of God. I am as you are. And what has happened in my life can happen in yours.

Yesterday I was like you; today you can be like me. Not the slightest difference. Only this much: I have sat awake—and you are still asleep. And I am trying to shake you, to wake you. Yet to wake anyone from sleep is troublesome. The one sleeping is lost in dreams—counting gold coins, perhaps! Bundles of notes raining down. Seated on the highest chair—president, prime minister. And you go to wake him.

If his dream collapses, he will be angry: “I had not even properly taken my seat on the chair, and you shook me! The chair is lost!”

Mulla Nasruddin once dreamt at night that an angel said to him, “Ask—ask for something!” See a man’s foolishness—yet he is just like you! He said, “A hundred-rupee note!” Even if God were to appear—think—what would you ask? If God Himself met you one morning on your walk and asked, “What do you want?” what would you do? Bundles of notes! “Let me win this election; let that woman I love be mine; I have no son—grant me a son.” Such trifles you would ask. “Let my lottery come through! The horse I bet on at the Pune races—let it win!”

Notice: even horses are not as foolish as humans! Horses don’t organize footraces for humans. However many races humans run, no horse will come to watch. I tell you with certainty—no horse will come. “These fools are running—let them run. What is there to see!” But when horses run, crowds of humans gather! Right now all of Bombay is in Poona. Whoever’s pockets are a little warm is in Poona. The horses are running!

Horses are running—what is it to you! But man is strange. Even if donkeys run, he will go to watch.

People make cocks fight; they make partridges fight; crowds gather. The partridge must be thinking, “What has happened to man!” The cock must be thinking, “We are wiser: two men fight, and we couldn’t care less—fight on, go to blazes!” Man is crazily mad.

So the angel asked Nasruddin: “What do you want?” He said, “A hundred-rupee note in cash!” The angel too must have been stingy—because where is an angel in a dream? It’s only Nasruddin’s own mind. From one side the angel, from the other side Nasruddin—the same mind asking and answering!

The angel said, “I won’t give you a hundred. Take ninety.” Nasruddin said, “Not a paisa less than a hundred!” The angel nudged up inch by inch: “Take ninety-one.” Nasruddin stuck to it: “I will take only a hundred—a crisp, intact note!”

People adore banded bundles! They borrow from others to spend, saying, “This is a banded bundle; I don’t want to break it. Give me a rupee.” What will you do with your banded bundle? That poor fellow also has a banded bundle of one-rupee notes—yours you preserve, his you break! People tie up their notes!

Nasruddin said, “I’ll take it only if it’s a banded note. Ninety-one and such won’t do.”

The angel said, “All right, take ninety-two.” They began wrangling fiercely; at ninety-nine the matter stuck. The angel would not budge an inch. “Not a copper more than ninety-nine. Take it or leave it.” And Nasruddin: “You’ve come up to ninety-nine—why be stingy over one now!” Others’ stinginess is visible; one’s own is not.

But the angel insisted: “Not a penny more than ninety-nine. If you want it, take it.” The matter grew so heated that Nasruddin shouted, “If you give, give a hundred! Otherwise I’ll not take it at all. And I’ll take it banded—because once you break the bundle the money vanishes. A closed fist is worth a hundred thousand; opened, it’s dust. The joy is in the banded note!”

He shouted, “I’ll take only a hundred!”—and he woke up. When he woke, the angel was gone. Quickly he shut his eyes: “All right, give me ninety-nine!” But now—where? There was no angel. “Give me ninety-eight—give whatever you like! Ninety-one—ninety—give me anything!” But no one was there. The angel had vanished.

Dreams born of sleep break with sleep. Therefore, the one who tries to wake you first appears an enemy. That is why you crucified Jesus. Poisoned Socrates. Not without reason. Not without cause.

Whoever breaks your sleep evokes your anger. “We were seeing such sweet dreams—and these people are possessed by the mania of breaking our sleep! They won’t even let us sleep in peace!” Such a man—crucify him. Give him poison.

Only a few days ago someone threw a knife at me—hurled it—“Finish this man.” The poor fellow’s sleep must be breaking. He must be hurt somewhere. His dream slipping. The angel might go away—and the banded note was so near! The distance from ninety-nine to a hundred was so small! Oh, we had wrestled so far—only one rupee remained. Having dragged me to ninety-nine, one more could have been dragged. But sleep was broken out of time—and anger will rise!

The thrown knife carries that anger. You have always treated true masters poorly. Yet you are forgivable.

As Jesus said in his last words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” They do not know what they are doing! They are fast asleep—unconscious. I was trying to wake them. They know nothing besides sleep. Dreams are their only wealth.

So there is trouble in awakening.

You ask, Satyaprem: “Will I too ever attain that light whose vision I behold in you?” Certainly. Not a shred of doubt. Be assured. The light is present within you. You were born with it. You need not go anywhere outside to get it—not to Kaba, not to Kashi, not to Kailash. Just turn within—and the revolution happens. The miracle of miracles happens. That’s all for today.