Ka Sovai Din Rain #10

Himmat, brother… the combined total of all three!
But don’t keep asking such pointless questions. Let us speak of the Master; let the mind be absorbed in the Master. Even if you feel curiosity, always go to the original source. Beware of borrowed ideas and thought-thieves. If you want to understand J. Krishnamurti’s vision, if there is juice in it for you, then drink that juice directly from Krishnamurti. Then there is no need to sip from U.G. Krishnamurti. When the original is available, why get tangled in a copy?
Beware of carbon copies. And carbon copies are often aggressive claimants. A thief has to strive hard to prove that the ideas are his. He must gather many arguments and much evidence to show the ideas are his. One whose ideas truly arise from himself neither gathers arguments nor evidence—the ideas are his, simply.
And from the standpoint of consciousness, U.G. Krishnamurti has no authentic state at all. What he has taken to be samadhi is not samadhi; it is only swoon. Keep this in mind.
Patanjali has spoken of two kinds of samadhi: conscious samadhi and inert samadhi. Inert samadhi is samadhi in name only. It looks like samadhi, but it is not. In inert samadhi, the little energy of awareness you have is also lost. You fall unconscious—an inner swoon, a spiritual coma. You drop below the human. Of course, a peace comes—like the peace of deep sleep.
That is why Patanjali has said there is a similarity between samadhi and deep sleep. If very deep sleep comes, without dreams, there is peace and a freshness the next morning. But what happened in that profundity of sleep—where you went, where you reached, what was experienced—nothing is known. In the morning you can only say, “I slept deeply.” And you can only say it in the morning; once you have awakened from sleep.
Such is inert samadhi. It is easy, simple; it can happen easily. This is precisely why in the West the influence of LSD, marijuana, psilocybin and such intoxicants grows. And for the same reason, the sadhus and monks of this land have for centuries taken ganja, bhang, opium. The mind can be stupefied very easily. And when the mind is benumbed, naturally all anxiety ceases, all thoughts are gone. You are left in a hush. When you return, you feel fresh. But this freshness is costly; you have bought it at a great price. Real samadhi is conscious samadhi. Man stands between the two.
Understand it this way: man is between stone and God—a link in between. Stone is inert; God is pure consciousness. Man is half-and-half—partly inert, partly conscious. That is man’s worry and burn; that is his dilemma, his conflict, his pain, his tension. One half pulls you to become inert; the other half pulls you to become conscious. One half says: drown in music, alcohol, sex. The other half says: rise—into meditation, prayer, worship. And between these two no harmony comes; they are yoked opposite each other, like two oxen pulling a single cart in opposite directions.
And naturally, the oxen pulling backward are stronger. Why? Because the weight of the past is with them. Your entire past is a history of inertia. Hence inertia has great weight. Consciousness is the future; only a faint ray of it is descending as yet. Its force is not yet strong. The power of darkness is far greater.
That is why, when you try to meditate, waves of thought keep arising. Thoughts come from the past, from inertia; they are mechanical. Meditation is an effort to bring the future. It is difficult to bring the future down. One needs effort—sustained effort. One needs awareness—untiring awareness.
Man can easily become animal. Therefore, whatever facilitates becoming an animal attracts you greatly. Look at your excitement about politics! It is a device for becoming animal; a device to fall below. With the crowd you too become intoxicated. When the crowd starts shouting slogans, your throat opens too. Alone, your voice might fail, but with the crowd it opens. When the mob begins to set fires, you too engage in arson.
You have seen how much strength arises in anger! In anger you can push a big rock which you could not budge in normal times. Animality is powerful; it pulls from behind. One who falls below also finds a kind of peace. That is the relish of crime. Do not think that the criminal is interested only in money and that is why he steals. The real savor of crime is animality. The criminal is falling back. To be human is responsibility; to be human is a challenge. The criminal falls back; he declares, “I refuse the challenge.”
In the murderer, do not think he killed someone merely because he wanted to kill or had enmity. No; there is a relish in killing. When you are killing someone, you are no longer human—you become like a lion. That is why in those communities that valorize killing, “Singh” gets added after the name—whether Rajputs or Nepalese or Punjabis. Wherever killing has been emphasized, “Singh” is appended. It signifies: the man is no longer a man.
Look into yourself: if you are choking someone’s throat, in that very moment are you human? If you are human you cannot choke. If you can choke, you have slid backward; you are no longer human. A repressed animality within has taken over. That is why murderers often say in court: “We did not commit the murder deliberately; it happened. We did not want to do it; it happened in spite of us.” No court accepts this, but psychology says they are right. They are not lying just to avoid punishment. There is a psychological truth here: when it happened, they had fallen below the human; they were not in awareness. Blood had surged over them.
So there is a kind of relish even in crime. And even the criminal experiences a kind of peace after anger—have you noticed? After the storm of rage passes, a peace is felt. You break something, and afterward a peace is felt. But this peace is very costly and very dirty.
A madman sometimes appears like a saint, and sometimes saints appear like madmen. There is a correspondence: the madman has fallen below man; the saint has risen above man. Both are no longer “man”—in that sense they correspond.
There is also a correspondence between the criminal and the saint. Both are not men—one has gone beyond the human, and one has fallen below it.
So samadhi too has two states. One: fall below the human. You take bhang, ganja, charas, alcohol—you slide down. Look at the drunkard—how blissful he seems, how he staggers!
It is no accident that Sufis have defined meditation using the metaphor of the drunkard. Nor is it surprising that there is some resonance between the intoxication of drink and the intoxication of meditation and prayer. In the meditator’s eyes too you will find those same flushed lines of inebriation. On his face too you will find that elation. Even his feet stagger—he intends to place them here, they fall elsewhere. He too is filled with a certain ecstasy. He too has drunk something. He too has poured within a jar of nectar. But the jars are different, and the depth of intoxication is different.
There is also a symmetry between a child and a saint. Don’t you see saintliness in small children? What innocence! And in saints too you see the innocence of small children. Yet the difference is immense. The child will yet be perverted; the saint has gone beyond perversion. The child’s journey has not yet begun; it is about to begin—he is still preparing. He will enter the world, wander, be harassed, be broken, be scattered—and the saint has gone beyond all that scattering. The saint has become a child again. There is similarity, and there is difference.
So it is with inert samadhi and conscious samadhi. Inert samadhi means: the little consciousness within us is also forfeited. There is one gain. As soon as consciousness is lost— and it is very little in us, not much, so losing it is not difficult— the moment it is lost, a single note begins to sound within. Conflict departs; duality is no more. There is no division within us, no fragments. We become indivisible—even if unconscious, still indivisible. We become integrated. That is the joy of sleep: you come back together. All day you break and scatter; at night you are joined again. In the morning strength returns.
Such is the state of inert samadhi. Consciousness is gone; then you are integrated. But this integration is not of great value. You have become integrated by becoming a stone. Better to remain human than that. Remember Socrates’ statement! Socrates said: “I would rather remain Socrates even if dissatisfied. Even if I could be a pig and be satisfied, I would not choose to be a pig.” Even if satisfaction comes by being a pig, Socrates says, I will not choose it. If I must remain dissatisfied, even burn in dissatisfaction, but remain Socrates, that is my choice.
Socrates is right. Because from this very struggle and challenge the further journey proceeds. The whole consciousness must be awakened. Then unity happens—indivisible unity. All unconsciousness is gone; all darkness is gone.
As in your night everything is extinguished, so in samadhi everything is lit. As at night your consciousness sinks into darkness, so in samadhi all darkness is lost in light.
Buddha’s samadhi is conscious samadhi. Krishnamurti’s samadhi is conscious samadhi. Mahavira’s samadhi is conscious samadhi. U.G. Krishnamurti’s samadhi is inert samadhi. He takes great pride in saying that when samadhi would come to him, his body became absolutely wooden. He had to be lifted and carried. He became like a corpse. If he was sitting outside in the garden and samadhi came, he would fall right there; then they had to lift him on a stretcher and bring him in. Is this samadhi? This is not samadhi; this is only swoon. There can be a relish in this swoon—the relish of deep sleep—but it is not a describable, transformative relish.
Ramakrishna too used to fall into such samadhi; that was inert samadhi. Then Totapuri warned him. Totapuri told him, “This is inert samadhi. This falling like a corpse—there is no real substance in it. Wake up!”
Through Totapuri’s constant effort, Ramakrishna awoke. And the day Ramakrishna entered conscious samadhi, he realized what delusion he had been wandering in! What a mistake he had been making! He had taken darkness for light, swoon for awareness.
U.G. Krishnamurti’s samadhi is not samadhi—it is only swoon, a spiritual coma. Beware of such people. Keep away from such people.
But man’s greed is such that he can fall into anyone’s net—out of greed. “Let it come from anywhere—somehow let it be had.” And remember, it never comes from anywhere else. It is always found within. No one else can give it to you. And the more time you waste with others, you will repent later. The meeting is within. But to find it within, effort is needed. And no one wants to make effort. People are lazy. For money they will toil; for meditation they do not wish to toil. They want meditation to come as grace—gratis.
There is a gentleman who has been coming to me for years—ten years I have known him. Whenever he comes, he says, “Just bless me so that meditation happens.” I asked him, “Do you ever ask for blessings for money? For that you toil tirelessly in Bombay. Why do you ask blessings for meditation? And you never come to actually do meditation.”
He says, “What is there to do? When you are here, and your blessings are here, why meditate? We have caught hold of you.”
Now do you see their trick? For money they do not “catch hold” of me; because they know money is not gained that way. For money they keep an office in Bombay and work from morning to evening. Once or twice a year they come to me—for meditation. They ask for blessings. They don’t even come specifically to see me; when the horse races happen in Poona, they come. “The Ganges is flowing; let’s wash our hands.” Came to Poona—so let’s see him too. Blessings are free; there is no fee.
I told him, “This blessing I cannot give, because meditation does not come through blessing. Meditation comes through tireless effort.” But man is lazy; man is dishonest—greedy, yes, but not honest. He wants something for free. So he goes after anyone. He folds his hands anywhere, spreads his begging bowl anywhere. And remember: where the goods are the cheapest, there he arrives most readily.
Now U.G. Krishnamurti says, “No need of sadhana, no need of meditation, no need of yoga. Nothing is needed.” Your mind becomes delighted hearing that nothing is needed. This is what you have always wished: that nothing need be done, and yet you get it. You settle down: “We have found the right man who says nothing has to be done.” But “nothing” is what you were already doing—what new will happen now?
And I also tell you: by doing, meditation is not attained. But by doing, the state of non-doing is attained. And in the state of non-doing, meditation wells up. One who works hard, exhausts himself, puts everything he has into effort—one day such a moment comes when, working, he reaches the very peak of effort and there is no way to go beyond. He has staked everything—no coin kept back, no breath reserved, not a particle saved. What happens then? There is no way further. One collapses, is absorbed into the earth. That very collapsing is called surrender. In that very falling, God’s grace showers. But it showers only on those who have put in all effort—never on the lazy and sluggish.
Yet sometimes good sayings can be fatal. Even good sayings can weave a web of delusion. Beware of such people! You do not know; in your darkness you may grab hold of something wrong. The truth is: whatever your mind is ready to grasp easily—be a little wary of it. Because your mind is not ready to grasp truth easily; it is ready to grasp untruth easily. If something feels easy, know that some untruth is lurking in it; otherwise it would not seem easy. You are steeped in untruth. Untruth is your way of living. Whenever something is untrue, it attracts you; it fits your rhythm.
Truth startles you. Truth shakes you. Truth is an electric shock. In truth you become utterly disordered, chaotic. Sit near the one who renders you chaotic, who makes you squirm, who fills you with hurts and wounds, whose words pierce your chest like a dagger, who has so much compassion for you that he can afford not to be “kind,” who can be hard out of compassion for you, who sets about cutting your neck—sit by such a one, then something will happen.
Now I have two or three sannyasins who go to U.G. Krishnamurti. Why do they go? Because with U.G. Krishnamurti you can sit face to face and chat like friends. So they told me, “He is very human.” Their ego gets its satisfaction. They want to chat with me too like friends. I have no objection. Talk like friends, I have no objection—but then I will be of no use to you. Conversation will happen. But if you consider me a friend, you will not listen. And even if you listen, you will not follow.
This was the very obstacle between Krishna and Arjuna in the Gita. Arjuna had always known him as a friend. That is the obstacle. Hence such a long Gita had to be spoken. He knew him as friend; how to accept him suddenly as guru? And the one known as friend suddenly says, “Sarva dharman parityajya, mamekam sharanam vraja—Abandon all dharmas and come to my feet alone. I am the giver of liberation; I will take you to moksha!”
Arjuna must have been startled: what has happened to Krishna’s head! He is my friend; we grew up together, sat together; he became my charioteer out of friendship. Arjuna sits above; Krishna below. And today he says, “mamekam sharanam vraja!” So Arjuna said, “Show me your universal form; then I will accept.” That old friend is creating trouble.
For years I too stayed in people’s homes. I made many friendships. But I saw that from my side the friendship is fine; from their side it turns fatal. From my side, you are my friends; from your side, it is still a bit early to be friends. From your side you are still disciples—so that someday you may be friends. You can be friends only when you see what I have seen; when you have eyes like mine; when your feeling-state is like mine; when your consciousness is like mine. Only then, from your side, can you be a friend.
From my side, you are friends. From my side, you are all buddhas. But if in relation to me your stance is of a friend, you will miss. The ego finds satisfaction. You go to someone; he talks to you as a friend, holds your hand, treats you warmly. You are much gratified: “If a realized man considers me his friend, then I too must be realized! If an awakened man treats me as a friend, then I too am awake.”
When you come to me, I put up a thousand obstacles. If you wish to meet me now, I do not let you. There is a purpose behind it. You have to wait ten days; then I let you meet. I could have met you immediately; there was no barrier. For years I did meet freely. But I found that the time would be lost, and I would be of no use to you. I had to distance myself from you. I had to erect walls between you and me—so that you pay a price to come near. And you can come near only when you are willing to bow. Because if you bow, I can pour what is in my pitcher into you. If you open, I can enter you.
No—friendship from your side will not do. From my side, friendship is fine. From your side, friendship becomes a danger—suicidal.
But such cheap things impress people. And in such cheapness a man goes astray.
Then two, three, five people go to him. It has no meaning. How will he even erect obstacles at this stage? For now, this excuse of friendship will keep things going. What numbers are there? Who knows U.G. Krishnamurti? Yet some people find meaning even in this, because they become special. Two or four people reach someone, and those two or four become the special ones! I have fifty thousand sannyasins; now there is no way for you to be special. The only way to be special here is to become utterly ordinary—only then can you be unique here. You cannot be special here. These fifty thousand will soon become five hundred thousand, five million. This number is not going to stop. In it you will be lost.
So in my experience many kinds of people come. Some arrive out of ego. Their only fun was that they were “special.” As soon as people increase around me—and in fact, those people arrive who are meditating, entering samadhi, praying, truly transforming their lives—the prestige of these egotists begins to fade. Between me and them the number increases of those who are meditating. Because I am for those who meditate. You came for a merely formal meeting. Some say, “We were passing by, so we thought to drop in and see you.” I am here for those who are staking their lives. You just came by and thought to stop, exchange courtesies.
I am well—what news is there? You are unwell—what news? Both facts are obvious. There is nothing to ask or say. I am well—always well. And you are unwell—and always unwell. What is there to ask, what is there to chatter about? Why waste time?
But such people feel hurt. They quickly begin searching for someone else where they can exchange pleasantries, maintain formalities, sit and talk idle talk—and where they can be prominent, be special.
With me there is only one way to be special: become a zero. With me there is only one way to be accomplished: disappear. Die, and you shall be.
But such people are obstructed by this. Hence, in my experience those who come out of ego soon take leave of me. Their ego finds no satisfaction. They are hurt. They wanted to place their hand on my shoulder, to behave with me as a friend, and for me to behave with them as a friend.
I have no objection. Put your hand on my shoulder; I have no objection. But the day you put your hand on my shoulder, that very day I become useless for you. Then you will not be able to see me. Your eyes will become blind. Your whole perspective will be lost. You may come and I can ask how your wife is, how the children are, whether so-and-so is ill or well…and you will be very pleased. But what substance is there in that? The substance is that I tell you: you are absolutely not all right! And the time to act has come; the hour has arrived. The days are ripening; later you will repent.

Achyut! Exactly so. Where all mantras fall silent, there the real mantra is born. The mantra you repeat has no value. If it is repeated by your tongue, it cannot be worth more than the tongue that repeats it.

The Om you hum will be smaller than you. There is another Om that does not arise from your humming—the humming from which you arose. There is another Om whose resonance envelops the whole universe, from which the world is fashioned. To hear that Om, you don’t need to hum. To hear that Om, all humming must cease; speech must fall utterly silent; thoughts dissolve; no ripple remains in the mind—then suddenly, in amazement, you will hear: a music is playing within! It has been playing forever. But you were filled with your own noise and could not hear it.

And sometimes, when you slip out of worldly noise, you fill yourself with spiritual noise. A man was full of the marketplace’s clamor—filled with it for twenty-three hours—then he sits in the temple. There he starts reciting the Namokar, or chanting Om, or setting the refrain of Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram. When will you be free of noise? You only changed the noise. First it was worldly noise; now it is spiritual noise. But noise is noise. There is no “spiritual” noise and no “worldly” noise. Noise is just noise.

Learn the ajapa. Nanak said it, Kabir said it: Learn the ajapa. Dharamdas said it: Learn the ajapa. Ajapa means that which is not produced by your chanting. When all your japas fall silent—when the rosary slips from your hand, the flowers drop from your hand, the aarti flame is extinguished, the idol, the temple, worship, prayer are all forgotten, words are lost, everything is still—then suddenly there is an explosion. And it is not that it begins in that moment; the music was already playing within.

The Divine is already playing upon your veena, already touching the strings of your instrument. Otherwise, how would you live? What is your life? The moment his fingers part from the strings of your veena, in that very moment you die. His fingers are playing on your veena. That is your life—the music of life.

But once it is heard, then no obstacle remains. Then whenever you wish—“when I only incline my head a little, in the heart’s mirror appears the Beloved’s image.” Then you just bow the head slightly and you have seen. Whenever the mood arises, you close the eyes for a moment, and you have seen. In the midst of the marketplace, walking along, if for a moment you wish to listen, you hear the music. Wherever you are, you remain connected with it. The ajapa continues.

Achyut! You say it rightly. Only when the Gayatri mantras fall silent does the Gayatri Mantra arise. Only when the Namokar is lost does the Namokar take birth.

And there are only two things. One is the world of chitta-ranjan, and the other is the world of chitta-bhanjan. Chitta-ranjan means: you are absorbed in the mind’s play; lost in the mind’s melody; drenched in the mind’s colors. Chitta-bhanjan means: the mind is broken, the mind is gone. That which lies beyond the mind has been given a chance to descend.
And Chittaranjan is engaged in the endeavor. His effort is right. The results have already begun to show. Spring is not far—first flowers have begun to bloom. The monsoon clouds of Ashadha have gathered; rain will come soon. Chitta-bhanjan will also happen. Tears are an auspicious sign—the first fine drizzle.

You ask: “While listening to your discourse, sometimes my eyes grow moist and tears begin to flow.”
Flow with those tears. A human being has nothing more sacred than tears. Nothing more prayerful either. Your words are hollow; your tears carry nectar. When you speak, it is merely something said; when you weep, it is your very life speaking. In truth, tears come only when such feelings arise in your life-breath as cannot be contained in words; what cannot be said; where words fail. Where words prove impotent, there the tears begin to flow. Tears are the climate of feeling.

And feeling is deeper than thought. Dive into feeling! Let this ecstasy of feeling grow. These tears will not only cleanse your outer eyes, they will cleanse the inner eyes as well.

Dharmdas has said: the ordinary person is such that all four of his eyes are ruined—two outer and two inner. You have not only the eyes that look outward; you also have eyes to look within. But the inner eye has lain closed for centuries. So much dust has gathered upon it that it seems to have gone blind. Now even the outer eye is gathering dust.

Even with the outer eye, little is clearly seen anymore. It has been reduced to a mere utility. You see the stone, but not the Divine hidden within the stone. So even the outer eye sees nothing special—only the trivial, the futile; it misses the meaningful.

Scientists say tears are the method that keeps the outer eye clean. If dust should not be allowed to settle, the tears arrive. Let a tiny speck slip in—the tears come. Tears are the means to wash the grit away. And you will be surprised to know that though tears flow only sometimes, they arrive twenty-four hours a day. Whenever you blink, your eyelid is moist and wipes the eye. This cleansing is ongoing.

If your eyelid were not moist, your eye would soon be ruined. If tears dry up, the eye too will dry up.

Why do you blink at all? Because moment to moment something is settling on the eye. The air is full of dust—very subtle particles. And the eye is a mirror. So the lid keeps moving; each moment it cleans the eye. The lid is moist—like wiping a mirror with a damp cloth. So, moment to moment, your eyelid is moist; and the moist lid keeps working.

Thus the scientist, the physiologist, says tears have a purpose. That is why women’s eyes appear fresher, more liquid, deeper—because women have not yet forgotten the art of tears; men have. Men have been seized by a stiff posture. A delusion has arisen that a man should not cry. This is unfortunate. Who knows which fools planted this notion that men must not weep? You don’t let even a small child cry. You say, “Stop it! What are you, a girl?” And even a little boy becomes puffed with pride. He does not want to be a girl—because you have made such a sorry spectacle of womanhood that to be a woman seems an insult.

I have heard: in one home, a boy got very angry with his mother. He was no more than nine. He locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn’t open the door. The mother panicked. She knocked and knocked—he wouldn’t answer. He stood inside in utter silence, as if in a trance. The mother’s anxiety grew. Her husband was at the office. What to do? She phoned him. He said, “Try to persuade him; get him out. Even if I come, what can I do if he won’t open?” With no other way, she remembered there was a policeman in the neighborhood. Perhaps he could frighten the boy into coming out. She called him. The policeman came. He asked the lady who it was and how old. She said, “My son, nine.” The policeman went up, knocked on the door and said, “Little girl, come out now.”
The boy at once opened the door and said, “What do you take me for? I’m a boy, not a girl!”
But that little prod brought him out. Policemen know people’s foolishness—that’s their daily trade. He found a trick—a little psychology: “Little girl, come out.” The boy flared up: “Enough! Who’s calling me a girl?”

You fill even the tiniest child with poison. You tell him, “You’re not a girl, are you?”

Nature has made no difference between the tear glands of men and women. Both have them equally. So men should be able to cry just as women do. Otherwise nature wouldn’t have endowed men with such tear glands if they were not meant to weep. But men have restrained themselves, swallowed their tears. Because of this, the dignity has gone out of a man’s eyes; they have become dry, desert-like; the depth has gone, the magic is lost. The eyes no longer shine, no longer astonish.

You will be startled to know psychologists say that twice as many men as women go mad; twice as many suffer mental illnesses; twice as many men commit suicide. There are many reasons. One of them is that men have forgotten how to cry. When a feeling overwhelms a woman, she cries; and becomes light. Tears wash the feeling away.

A man has no means to let his feelings flow. They keep piling up, piling up—until a moment comes when it is impossible to bear. Then he leaps from the seventeenth floor. If only he had wept a little, he would have grown lighter.

Chittaranjan, all is going well.

And I tell you this: just as the outer eye is washed by tears, so too the inner eye is washed by tears. For everything about us is in pairs. The body is outside; the soul, within. Two eyes outside, two eyes within. Two ears outside, two ears within. And as tears have an outer form—water—so they also have an inner form—feeling. Everything is made of an outer and an inner. The outer form of tears—the water—washes the outer eyes; the inner form of tears—feeling—washes the inner eyes.

If you can weep with a full heart, the curtains will lift.

Let the tears pour and pour,
let the ocean brim and spill;
the heart’s urgings, their silent signals—
heavy, heavy, growing still and light.
Look—how the hem has snagged;
wait—the sea will surely spill.
Their neglect, their attention—
one heart, and a thousand thrills.
Their yearning, their tenderness—
walk with care, walk with care.
Grief raised a hundred storms,
the heart built palaces everywhere.
In one moment laughter, in one tears;
in one, bright; in one, dim veils.
We did not grasp, nor did you know—
the heart stirred a thousand gales.
We pleaded and pleaded, tried to forget,
yet the cups of the eyes brimmed and spilled.
How tangled, how straight,
the paths to their palace of colors!
We bore the chains, we kneaded the hardships—
now let the face, the face at last, be revealed!

“How tangled, how straight—the paths to their palace of colors!”
The path to the Divine is very straight—and very tangled too. Walk by the intellect and it is very tangled; walk by feeling and it is very straight. Seek by thought and it is far away; seek by feeling and it is very near. Search with the eyes and it is distant; search through tears and it is intimate.

Chittaranjan, consider tears your good fortune. Your conditioning, your habits, your ingrained notions will try to stop them. Do not listen to those notions. Let the tears rain. Let them come with total absorption. Become one with them. They are not mere tears; they are flowers that have sprung from your heart.

“You say that while listening to discourse sometimes the eyes grow moist and tears flow, and then the body and mind feel light, the tension eases. In active meditation too it sometimes happens the same way. Both states feel blissful.”
Hence your question arises: Between prayer and meditation, intention and surrender—two distinct paths—which will bring about chitta-bhanjan?

There are people who must choose a path; and there are people for whom no such choice is needed. Some must clearly choose either the path of meditation or the path of prayer. Who are those who have to choose in this way? And who are those who can absorb both together?

Consider this: there are people who are ninety percent intellectual and ten percent heart. For them it is appropriate to choose the path of meditation—what is ninety percent in you can become your path. There are those who are ninety percent feeling and ten percent thought. For them it is clear they should choose the path of prayer. But there are also people who are fifty-fifty, or nearly so—fifty-one, forty-nine—divided such that the intellect is fifty percent and the heart fifty percent. For them, choosing is not appropriate; choosing will prove costly. Whatever they choose will be wrong. If they choose meditation, fifty percent of their being will remain unfulfilled—a big incompleteness. If they choose prayer, the same incompleteness remains.

Chittaranjan is among those few who are split fifty-fifty. No need to choose. Enter both. Meditate and pray. Dive into both together—only then will your chitta-bhanjan be complete.

Chaitanya Kirti! “Thank you” is sweet, but the time has not yet come. The time to give thanks will come—right now it has not. As yet, nothing has happened. What are you thanking me for?

Finding taste in my words—there is no need to say thanks for that. Even if my words sound good, so what? Until my words begin to happen within you—save your thanks for that day.

Wait a little. Be patient a little. Enter what I am saying. Don’t be in such a hurry to thank. Here we don’t observe formalities.

“Dhan-yavaad” is a precious word. Don’t use it lightly. What often happens is that we start using precious words casually, and their meaning is lost. All our truly valuable words—we have spoiled them. We have spoiled “prem”—love—the most precious word! Perhaps only the word “Paramatma” surpasses it in worth. But we have spoiled that too. Someone says, “I love ice cream.” Someone else loves a car. Another, clothes. Someone says, “I love my dog.”

What have you joined to the great idea of love? You started calling likes and preferences “love”! You may like ice cream—but what is love? Love is a vast word, a precious word. If you use it this way, naturally it will be distorted. Then you will tell a woman, “I love you.” She will think, “No doubt, the same way you love ice cream.” Where will the meaning of love remain then? And one day you will say to God, “I love you.” God will turn his face away: “No doubt, the same way you love your dog.” What value does your love have?

The same with the word “Ishwar”—God. A priceless word. We used it so much we ruined it. We drag God into every little thing—into trifles. Such sacred words should be used very thoughtfully, very consciously, at the right time.

The Jewish tradition was right. Their tradition was not to use the word “God” at all. Even now, if they write it in English, they drop the “o”—they write G-d. Only an indication: we are pointing toward God. How can we use the full word “God”? Our tongue is not yet worthy. We do not yet have the heart to use the word God. The day we know, that day we may.

There was an ancient and very significant Jewish custom: their greatest master—once a year—would go into the great temple in Jerusalem. There was an inner chamber where none could go. The one among them who was most knowing and most awakened would enter once a year on a special day. All the Jews would gather—hundreds of thousands. The master would go inside; all the doors would be closed. He would go into the inner chamber; those doors too would be closed. And there, in that aloneness where no one could hear, he would utter the Name of God. Just once. Then he would quietly come out. Outside, all waited in silence. He was uttering it on their behalf. Once a year! Even that is a lot. And only one who can—should do it.

The point of this tradition is simply this: the more ultimate the word, the more sparingly it should be used.

“Dhan-yavaad”—gratitude—is a costly word. Until you are truly “dhanya”—blessed—how will you use it? The English “thank you” is not a translation of “dhan-yavaad.” For that, “shukriya” is fine. “Dhan-yavaad” is a very precious word… the state of blessedness! And there is only one blessedness; there are not many blessings. One is blessed only when meditation arises. One is blessed only when the inner wealth is found. One is blessed only when the inner kingdom is attained. One is blessed only upon realizing the Divine—never otherwise.

So, Chaitanya Kirti, not yet. You offer thanks—I am not taking them yet. Hold them for now. Deepen them further. Add more worship to them, more prayer. Let more life-breath flow into them. Let their roots spread further within you. Let more flowers come, more fragrance rise. When the right time arrives, then use the word. And perhaps then you won’t even be able to use it. Perhaps you will bow in silence. Perhaps speaking will no longer seem appropriate.

Bodhidharma was returning to India. He had four disciples in China. As he was about to depart, he called the four. He had hundreds of thousands of students, but they were merely learners; these four were true disciples, truly surrendered. He called them and said, “I am leaving now. In a single sentence, tell me the truth you have realized.”

The first stood and spoke: “Truth is vast, infinite, inexpressible.” He said many philosophical things. Bodhidharma said, “You have my flesh.”

The second said, “Truth is experience, not philosophy. Neither expressible nor inexpressible. It is realization, direct seeing.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my bones.”

The third said, “There is only one way to reveal truth—silence.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my blood.”

The fourth was a woman. When Bodhidharma turned to her, she bowed and fell at his feet. She said nothing. Bodhidharma lifted her up and said, “You have my soul.”

What is there to say? To say even that truth is inexpressible—becomes an expression. To say that truth is experience—becomes a word. To say that truth can only be said in silence—then why say even that? Silence is already broken. To the fourth Bodhidharma said, “You have my soul.”

Do not be in a hurry, Chaitanya Kirti. Here I want hundreds of people to whom I can say: “You have my soul.” And this will happen. People have begun to walk on the path. But wait, and keep patience.

When I look into your mind right now, I do not yet find anything for which you could truly say “thank you.” I find no reason for gratitude. You are happy being here with me—but that is secondary. You feel good being close to me—but that has no value. I am not here to give you comfort. I am here to give you nothing less than truth. I will not settle for less. If I settle for less, then I have not loved you. I will pull you and keep pulling you—till the last breath. Until the music of truth is born within you, I will keep tightening your strings. I will hammer you, beat you. You will be hurt often. You will smart and wince. Many times you will want to run away. But all that will be necessary. There is no other way. I cannot be bought cheap. You have made friends with a difficult man.

When I look inside you right now, I still see the web of thoughts, desires, cravings. You are still full of very small things. There isn’t even room yet for the great. Where is “thank you” now?

Look at the dusky sky and the burnish of the stars;
the goddess of night has chosen a spangled veil
—or are they little lamps of tears,
trembling along some traveler’s way?
Ah, this dusky sky, these spark-flares of stars—
the thought comes to my heart,
yet in the dead dark, the breath is stifled.
Why not light some candles in the hall of imagination?
The barbat, the chang, the rabab—
they wait for a single flick of my plectrum.
Why should life remain only one continuous sigh?
Why not awaken those melodies
at whose sound even time itself would halt?
Blood flows along the thoroughfares,
life sobs under the shadow of death.
Should I seek a shore away from this surging storm?
These sighing corpses, these lifeless lives,
these foreheads that find no respite from prostrations,
these enthusiasms crushed by hunger,
these sobbing souls, these writhing hearts—
stealing these rolling tears,
perhaps I too could make an illumination
in my hall of imagination.
Seeing the goddess of night’s adornment,
a doubt arises:
Even leaning on the reed and the song,
will life be able to go on?
From the glittering lanterns of these stars—
will the night’s heart-blackness be erased?

You have seen the sky—filled with stars! You too can be filled with stars. You have seen the night’s veil—so embroidered with light! Such a veil can become your own raiment.

Look at the dusky sky and the burnish of the stars;
upon the goddess of night’s brow lies a veil of spangles—
or little lamps of tears
trembling along some traveler’s way.
Ah, this dusky sky, these sparks of stars—
the thought comes to my heart,
yet in the dead dark the breath is stifled.

But man lives in darkness. He does not call the sky, does not invite it. Within you is hidden a sky even vaster. Within you, a festivity of stars more lovely waits to happen. There are many gardens outside, and many flowers—but they do not compare with those that bloom within. The lotuses outside are pale lotuses. The lotuses within, once they bloom, never wither.

Give thanks when the inner lotuses bloom. Give thanks when your very life within is draped in a star-studded veil.

In the dead dark the breath is stifled—
right now it is stifled.

Why not light candles in the hall of imagination?
Think: why not light the lamps of awakening, of enlightenment, in the portico of your meditation?

Why not light candles in the hall of imagination?
The barbat, the chang, the rabab—
why not take up the lute and the tambourine? Why not pluck the inner strings? Why not let the inner drum resound?

Why not light candles in the hall of imagination?
The barbat, the chang, the rabab
await a single flick of my plectrum.
Just a small gesture from you, and the music will burst forth! Dance will rise up. The tavern will open.

Awaiting a single flick of my plectrum—
why should life remain only one continuous sigh?
Why have you made life a long sequence of sorrow, sighs, complaints?

And Chaitanya Kirti, your life right now is a sigh—a continuous sigh!

Why not awaken those melodies
that even time, hearing them, would halt?
And surely it happens. I have seen time stop—therefore I tell you: time does indeed stop. When the inner song awakens, when that inner mantra erupts for which Achyut has asked his question—when the inner Namo-kar arises, when the Om-sound resounds, when the unstruck sound expresses itself—time comes to a halt. It stops forever! Then all recognition of time is erased. There is no past, no future, no present. Only the Eternal remains.

Awaiting a single flick of my plectrum—
why should life be only one continuous sigh?
Why not awaken those melodies
at whose sound even time would halt?
Blood flows along the pathways,
life sobs under the shadow of death.
Right now life is crushed beneath death. Life has not yet been freed from death.

Shall I take refuge from this surging storm?
These sighing corpses, these lifeless lives—
this life like the dead! Do you see the people walking along the streets? They are only walking corpses. Until one has known God, all are dead. Only by awakening to him, by seeing, by living, does life become available. There is no other life than that.

These foreheads that have no respite from prostrations,
these enthusiasms that hunger has crushed,
these sobbing souls, these throbbing hearts—
stealing these rolling tears,
might I too light up my hall of imagination?
Seeing the goddess of night’s adornment,
a doubt arises:
Such thoughts arise in you too. Seeing a Buddha, the wish arises to deck yourself in such a sky. Passing by a Mahavira, his fragrance reaches you. Your nostrils begin to tremble. A sleeping wave within you stirs. Near a Christ or a Mohammed, the song asleep within you begins to raise its hood, to lift its head. But then doubts seize you.

Seeing the goddess of night’s adornment,
a doubt arises:
leaning on the song and the reed,
will life be able to move?
This is the trouble. This doubt does arise.

A doubt arises:
leaning on the song and the reed,
will life be able to move?
From the glittering lanterns of these stars,
will the blackness in the heart of night be erased?
And such doubts become hindrances, obstacles. Be with me. Look at the night sky. Look at the star-filled sky. And seeing alone will not do. Being only a spectator will not do. Such a sky can be available to you too. You too are entitled to it; you are its rightful owner. Claim your right. It is your essential birthright. This freedom must be yours. This dignity must be yours.

You see, I have given you the name Chaitanya Kirti. It means: the glory of consciousness. It lies within you; you have to raise it. I give such hope-filled names so that you will remember: until the glory of consciousness is attained—until that renown, that dignity and majesty are yours—I will not stop.

The day for gratitude will surely come—but there is much labor to be done. There are many stones on the path to remove. The way must be cut through. Right now the Ganges is at Gangotri. Say “thank you” when the Ganges reaches the ocean. As yet, much of the journey remains. Do not waste “thank you” on little things. Otherwise, when the time for the great arrives, the word “thank you” will have become trivial and empty. Keep it safe. It is a precious word, a beloved word.

You must have noticed: in the West there is a custom of saying “thank you” for every little thing. It has become so formal, so mechanical, that sometimes it becomes absurd. A son thanks his mother. A son thanks his father—for little things! The mother gives a cup of tea, and the son says, “Thank you.” In India it would feel awkward. Here, if your mother hands you a cup of tea and you say “thank you,” she will be startled. The cup might even fall from her hand: “What are you saying? Thank you? Are you in your senses?”

No—here we have recognized subtler things. You cannot thank your mother. Formality cannot be brought between mother and son. In the marketplace and the world, fine. But where relationships are very deep, this will not do. Will you thank your wife? She will think, “He must have done something wrong today—why else is he saying thank you?” Will your wife thank you? Will you thank your son?

No—the deeper the love, the more difficult “thank you” becomes, because formality becomes impossible.

Your relationship with me should not be transactional. This is not a formal relationship. And you will not get off so easily by giving thanks! Do you think you can close the account by saying “thank you,” and be free of the debt? There is no such way.

Our scriptures say: It is difficult to repay a mother’s debt, yet it can be repaid. But a guru’s debt cannot be repaid at all. The scriptures give only one way to repay the guru’s debt: whatever you have received from the guru, share it. What you have received, distribute it. When what has come to you comes to many through you, then think, “Well, something has gone toward the guru’s work.”

So first awaken yourself—then awaken others. Don’t worry about “thank you.” When its hour comes, your heart’s own voice will say it. Speech won’t even be needed. Your eyes will say it. It will blossom in silence.

How long the shame of failed striving?
How long the blame on the starved hand of fate?
The world needs the vigor of your youthful resolve—
how long will your head remain bent, praising the cup?
Come face to face with the Layla of Reality at least once—
how long will you rest in the fair shade of dreams?
You yourself can turn the course of the age—
O naive one, how long complain of the turning days?
Nothing but delusion are the chains of custom and convention—
O free-flying bird, how long under the net?

All the conventions and formalities of this world are only illusions.

Nothing but delusion are the chains of custom and convention,
O free-flying bird!—
O lover of freedom!—
O free-flying bird, how long under the net?
How long will you remain entangled in these little snares? O freedom-loving bird, fly! The whole sky is yours. But without flying, this sky cannot be yours.

Come face to face with the Layla of Reality as well—
that beloved whose name is God, the Layla of truth, the Layla of the Real. Come face to face with her—let your two eyes meet her two eyes.

How long will you laze in the fair shade of dreams?
How long will you keep dreaming?

And Chaitanya Kirti, you are dreaming a great deal, which is why I say this. Only dreams, dreams. Not even the first ray of truth has dawned yet.

Come face to face with the Layla of Reality—
how long will you rest in the fair shade of dreams?
Nothing but delusion are the chains of custom and convention—
O free-flying bird, how long under the net?

Everything has its time. Every matter has its season. Spring will come; only then will something happen. But when spring will come, there is no certainty. Therefore one has to wait.
You listened for two years, and only in the last fifteen days has something begun to happen. Now think a little. If in those two years you had become impatient...?

Many times the thought must have come: “Nothing is happening. Enough now. One year has passed. A year and a half has passed. One and three-quarters have passed. One year and eleven months have passed. Still nothing has happened. Two years have gone by—nothing! How long am I going to waste time?” Two years is not a small span. It’s long—and if nothing is happening, it feels very long. In suffering, time stretches; in joy, it shrinks. If something is happening, two years pass like the blink of an eye. If nothing is happening, two years feel like lifetimes sitting and waiting. Sitting here in this Chuang Tzu Auditorium, listening, listening for two years—and nothing seems to be happening.

In the meantime, do you remember, many who once sat beside you are no longer here? They got tired, bored, and left. No one knows when the right hour will arrive. And without that hour, nothing happens. In the right moment, when all your strings come into tune with existence, an event occurs. It happens only when it happens—out of its own ripeness.

It once happened, when gold was first discovered in Colorado, the whole world rushed there. All over America people went mad. They sold their shops and factories, gathered whatever money they had, and ran to Colorado. Trains to Colorado were packed. People began buying land. Gold seemed to be lying in the fields. Whoever managed to get a plot—an acre even—was set for life. Colorado looked like nothing but gold.

One man had considerable wealth. He took everything he had and bought an entire hill. He staked it all. He thought, “If one or two acres can make people rich, why do anything small?” He sold everything, kept nothing back. But to his shock, the hill was barren—no gold at all. He dug himself half to death. He borrowed millions and installed heavy machinery to mine the hill. The digging went on and on, and nothing came to hand. Bankruptcy loomed. He advertised in the newspapers: if anyone wanted to buy the hill, he would sell it along with all the mining equipment.

His friends said, “Who will buy it? All of America is shaking its head at your misfortune. Who will buy?” He said, “Perhaps someone will. There may be a madman greater than I.”

And someone did buy it. The seller felt relieved that the ordeal was over. He didn’t get what he had hoped, but what he got was enough to save him from bankruptcy. Still, his mind began to worry: “This poor fellow is walking into death knowingly. I, at least, went in blind. He is going in with eyes open.” He even began to feel pity for him.

But a miracle happened. On the buyer’s very first day of digging, he struck the biggest gold vein in Colorado! Just one more foot—only a foot-thick layer—had remained to be dug. Imagine what the first man went through! He went mad. If bankruptcy had come, he might not have gone mad—but now he did. He beat his chest. Sleep left him. “Finished! This is the limit!” And then the real mountain of sorrow fell upon him. The whole hill was filled with gold—only one more foot of digging was needed.

Life is like that. Who knows when you might turn back? If at any point in these two years you had turned back, Suman—there must have been chances to turn back—you would have missed, and missed badly. When it will happen cannot be said. And in these two years, many times in your mind, seeing others, the thought must have arisen: “They must be in delusion—hallucinating. It’s a mental aberration.” Because when something is not happening to us and it happens to someone else, the natural inclination is to call it illusion. “His brain is disordered. He’s not in his senses. What halos? What tinklings? What music? What electric shocks! If all this is happening, the man must be pathological. Better not sit near him tomorrow—diseases are contagious.”

Many times, Suman, you must have felt that what is happening to others is wrong. But now, what had looked wrong has begun to show its meaning.

Therefore I say: keep patience, wait. Infinite patience is needed. No one can say when you will strike the vein. No prediction is possible.

Second thing: when something happens to another, don’t let egoistic thoughts arise—“It’s a delusion; there’s some distortion in his mind.” These are defenses of your ego. Because it isn’t happening to you while it is to someone else, there seem to be only two ways to save face: either you are dull, stony—your heart is of stone—or the other person is mad. The second is more convenient: “He must be mad. I—and a stone heart? I, such a lover—and a stone heart? I, such a sensitive person—a stone heart? I, so intelligent—and it doesn’t happen to me while it happens to this fool? Then it must be wrong.”

That’s why it is so difficult to accept another’s experiences. So be mindful: when another has experiences, if you can accept them, consider yourself blessed—because that very acceptance will bring your hour closer. And if you cannot accept, at least do not oppose, do not deny, do not reject, do not condemn. Say, “Brother, it is not happening to me yet; therefore I cannot say anything. Good or bad—I can make no statement.”

When it happens to you, only then will you know. And it can happen to everyone.

When you listen with your eyes open, one kind of experience happens. When you listen with your eyes closed, another kind of experience happens. Both kinds are useful. Sometimes listen with your eyes open, sometimes with your eyes closed. Flow between these two experiences. Make them the two banks, and let the river of your life flow between them. Both are right. Both are necessary. Whichever your heart longs for at a given moment, enter that experience. Sometimes listen with your eyes open—this too is a way to become absorbed in me. Sometimes listen with your eyes closed—this too is a way.

What has happened to Anand Kumud so far is fine. But there is still further to go. Don’t get stuck there; don’t stop there.

There is a famous saying of the Zen masters: Before meditation, mountains were mountains and rivers were rivers. Then you meditated—rivers were no longer rivers, mountains were no longer mountains. Then samadhi arrived—mountains again were mountains, rivers again were rivers. Keep these three things in mind.

When you begin meditation your lifestyle will change, because meditation is a great revolution. A new element has entered your life. What looked meaningful yesterday will begin to look futile; something more meaningful is being found, so comparison arises.

Hemant hasn’t asked it, but the hitch is this: the wife no longer has any taste for sex. That is what is disturbing the husband. Out of fear he has not asked it, not knowing what I might say—there’s no telling with me! But whether you ask it or not, I will say what I have to say. Who cares about your question?

And I can understand your restlessness. The husband still has a taste for sex, the wife’s taste has gone. A difficulty has arisen. The wife has also stopped going out. She has reduced her food. And not only that—she has even dropped meditation. Up to now what has happened is fine: mountains were no longer mountains, rivers no longer rivers. Now take one more step. Let the mountains become mountains again. Let the rivers be rivers again. Now return to ordinary life.

Only when meditation brings you back to ordinary life can you understand that completion has happened. If a man goes off to sit in the Himalayas, leaves his shop, and is afraid to return to the shop, his meditation is not yet complete. If it is complete, then what are you still doing sitting there? Now come back to the shop. Sit at the shop in such a way that the Himalayas are there and the shop is there too.

So my advice to Kumud is: now, slowly begin to take proper food again. This happens. As meditation deepens, food decreases, because meditation fills so much space within that there remains little space for food.

Have you noticed? The more troubled and restless a person is, the more he eats. People who overeat do so because of their worries—because of restlessness and tension. It is now part of psychological understanding: why does a person eat too much? He feels empty inside. How to fill the emptiness? No other way is seen—so keep pushing food down the throat; for a while there seems to be a sense of fullness. But is that fullness real? It is only the illusion of fullness.

Why does an anxious person eat more? Because he is afraid—who knows if food will be available tomorrow or not! Who knows about tomorrow—whether it will even come! This mischief begins in childhood.

Have you noticed? A mother who gives her child the breast fully, just as much as the child needs—have you seen? If not, notice this—the child runs off; he doesn’t even want to drink milk. The mother wants to nurse him, he turns his face away. And the mother who wants to wean the child—the child grabs the breast. Have you seen this difference? In a home where the child is cared for, the child has no concern for food. He runs off to play; food is not even a worry. But where the child is not cared for, in an orphanage, there the children think about food twenty‑four hours a day. They keep watching the bell—when will the dining hall bell ring? You don’t have to call them; you have to make them leave the dining hall—you don’t have to invite them in.

Have you ever gone to an orphanage? I once stayed in a village home; they ran an orphanage and took me there. I was amazed—all the children had big bellies. I asked, “Everything else seems fine, but what is this? Why are the stomachs of all these children so large?” They said, “These children eat too much—more than needed. We don’t even feel good stopping them, because they are orphans. But we don’t understand it. We have children at home too; with them we have to coax and cajole them to eat, and they run away. They say, ‘We aren’t hungry. I have to go play now. My friend has come.’ But these children won’t leave their plates.”

The reason? Anxiety. The orphan is anxious—there is no certainty about tomorrow. He is restless, disturbed. In disturbance and restlessness one overeats.

You too can observe: whenever you are happy, you eat less. When you are elated, you eat lightly. Whenever you are sad, anxious, miserable, you eat more. In America the disease of obesity is spreading rapidly. The basic reason is simply this: enormous anxiety has arisen—great restlessness, panic. Life seems to be perched on an earthquake all the time. With meditation it will happen that food decreases.

That is fine. And with meditation, interest in sexuality will also diminish, because energy begins to flow upward. That too is fine. And with meditation a moment also comes when peace begins to happen and remain, and one thinks, “Now what need is there for meditation?” So meditation is dropped. All this is fine. But if you stop right here, then danger arises. Now one step further must be taken. Now meditate without any need. Meditation done out of need does not go very deep. Now meditate for no reason—out of playfulness, out of joy. Earlier you meditated for bliss; now meditate because of bliss. And now bring food back to right measure. Because it often happens that the anxious person eats too much, and the non‑anxious person begins to eat less than needed. That too is dangerous, that too is harmful. Look to the body’s need. Eat rightly.

And if the husband still has a need, then earlier you entered into sex with your husband because of your own desire; now enter out of compassion, out of love. The husband still has a need. Is there love for the husband or not? The meditator’s love becomes deeper. Understand the husband’s pain. And if the wife enters sexual union while remaining in a meditative state, then very soon the depth of sex in the husband’s life will begin to grow; the depth of meditation will begin to grow—along with the deepening of sex. Because in the moment of sex, meditation slips in more easily than at any other moment.

Now have compassion for the husband, be kind. Don’t trouble him. I say this because this is not just the matter of one couple; it is the matter of many couples. If the husband’s meditation deepens, his taste for sex goes; the wife is tormented. Often it happens that women keep showing the attitude that they have no interest. As long as the husband is chasing them, they keep showing that they have no interest in sexuality. But as soon as the husband enters meditation and his interest goes, the wife gets frightened. Because her entire relationship with the husband was that he followed her, he needed her. Now the need is ending—what if the relationship itself breaks? If the need ends, then what will the relationship be?

So a very surprising phenomenon faces me daily: if the husband goes deeply into meditation, the wife suddenly becomes keen on sex—more than she ever was! Or perhaps she was keen but didn’t show it. Now it is not a time to miss the chance—she goes after the husband. And now the husband has no taste for it; to him sex feels like exercise—a useless workout, unnecessary trouble.

To couples I want to say: if you both grow in meditation together, then this obstacle does not arise. But there is no necessity that because you are husband and wife your pace in meditation will be the same. Often one will go ahead and the other will lag behind. Have compassion for the other. Maintain love and kindness for the other. Care for the other’s need. That is duty—and that is the meditator’s responsibility.

So now, Kumud—eat rightly. Meditate for joy. Go out as well. Because the divine is outside too, not only within. First one has to recognize within. Once recognition happens within, then one has to go out and recognize him everywhere. He is manifest in so many forms—why sit only within? Within you have seen one form; now see the infinite forms! One has to go within for recognition. Once recognition has happened, go out as well. Now join the inner and the outer. The person who remains only within is incomplete. And the one who remains only outside is also incomplete.

Carl Gustav Jung, by psychological method, made two types of people—extrovert and introvert; outward‑turned and inward‑turned. Both are incomplete. The extrovert remains only outside; the introvert remains only inside. The introvert becomes sad; the extrovert becomes restless. A person should have a harmony of both. Just as you move in and out of your house: when there is beautiful sunshine outside and flowers have blossomed and birds are singing, what are you doing sitting inside? Go out! Dance with the sunshine! Have a little conversation with the trees. Speak a little with the flowers. When the sun becomes too intense outside, come in and rest. Rest within, work without. Take a dip inside, take a dip outside. Drink the divine whole—why half and half?

Therefore, take one more step. Now let the river be a river again, and the mountains be mountains again.

Gradually, the disciple stops seeing the Master and begins to see the Divine. Whatever disciples have spoken in praise of the Master is not really praise of the Master. The Master is a window. Beyond the window lies a night strewn with moon and stars, the blue sky—that is what has been praised. But it is through the Master that it was seen; the window was opened by the Master. Therefore, in an instrumental sense, the Master too is praised. In truth, the praise is of the Divine.

This is what those who have never known discipleship cannot understand. They cannot make sense of this description of Kabirdas; it sounds as though God Himself is being described. One who has not looked at Kabir with the feeling of a disciple will think, “What nonsense is this? Kabirdas, that weaver! Dharamdas has gone mad.”

Rightly so! Dharamdas has indeed gone mad. Love does drive one mad. But blessed are they who go mad, for it is to such mad ones that the Divine is revealed. The clever miss. The clever collect shards. The clever waste life as if pressing sand for oil—life runs out, and nothing comes into their hands. The clever go empty-handed. What dawned upon Dharamdas—“How shall I describe your radiance today!”—when would he have said this? He said it on the day he beheld the Absolute in the Master. “How shall I describe your beauty today!” Yesterday too he had seen, but yesterday it was Kabirdas he saw—Kabir Sahib. Today Kabir has become the window; only the Sahib, the Lord, is seen.

This is praise of the Divine. “Gurur Brahma!” But this is a matter only a disciple understands.

I sense that such a feeling is arising in Sita. As I just told Chaitanya Kirti that his day to offer thanks has not yet come, I can say to Sita that your day is very near. Just a little more, a step or two, and the hour of gratitude will arrive.

Human capacity is great—boundless. There is the capacity to absorb the Divine within. We do not know our own capacity. Needlessly, we sit considering ourselves small.

Remember these words:

If I unveil the magic of utterance
With songs, make the assembly shine like the Pleiades
Make bitter sighs familiar with ecstasy
Shred the robe of calamities to pieces
If I confer on the very heavens the resolve of devotion
Bow the radiant moon to the dusty threshold
If I strike up the eternal melody
Teach flowers to perfume the autumn
Even Azal would shed tears at my grief
If I recite the lament of life
If I pluck the strings of the lute in Your solitude
I could topple the lamps from the niches of the sanctuary
Say the word, and I will change the order of the two worlds
Plant a paradise of flowers in hell
May every flower in the rose-garden become a heart and fragrance
If I let fall a single tear of longing
“Shamim,” if I but sigh, the age would burst into flame
The expanse would smile if I smile

Human capacity is immeasurable. Such miracles are possible—
If I unveil the magic of utterance.
If I display the marvel of dialogue.
Within man lies the seed of that Great Word. If it manifests, the Upanishads manifest, the Vedas are born, the Quran arises, the Dhammapada begins to speak.

If I unveil the magic of utterance—
If I display the miracle of speech.

With songs, make the assembly shine like the Pleiades—
then my words become stars and shine forever. I would fill the sky with constellations.

Make bitter sighs familiar with ecstasy—
if I wish, I can turn the bitterest experience into bliss.

Make bitter sighs familiar with ecstasy.
Shred the robe of calamities to pieces—
with a single gesture, let the garment of misfortune fall to tatters.

If I confer on the very heavens the resolve of devotion—
if I issue an unambiguous command to the sky itself—

Bow the radiant moon to the dusty threshold—
and the moon would have to bend down to the earth.

If I strike up the eternal melody—
if I speak the message of eternity like Sarmad—

If I strike up the eternal song—
teach flowers to perfume the autumn—
then flowers would bloom even in the fall; even the desert would waft with lotus fragrance.

Even Azal would shed tears at my sorrow—
if I recite the lament of life—
even death would weep if I sing the song of life.

If I pluck the strings of the lute in Your solitude—
I could topple the lamps from the niches of the sanctuary.

Say the word, and I will change the order of the two worlds—
I will plant a paradise of flowers in hell.

Even hell can become heaven—this is man’s possibility. Man’s possibility is vast, for the Divine is man’s possibility.

May every flower in the rose-garden become a heart and fragrance—
if I let fall a single tear of longing.
“Shamim,” if I but sigh, the age would flare like a flame;
the expanse would smile if I smile.

Remember—remember again and again. You are not small, not petty. And when you come upon one by whose presence you receive the news of your vastness, by whom the sky is recalled to you, through whose window, gazing into whose eyes, you glimpse your first image of the Divine—bow there. Bow totally, with body, mind, and life-breath. Keep nothing back there. To be defeated there is to win.

Enough for today.