Ka Sovai Din Rain #2

Religion is always cash. Religion and credit do not go together. Borrowed religion is another name for irreligion. And borrowed religion is what is most prevalent on the earth. What you find in temples and mosques is borrowed religion.

Borrowed means: the experience is not yours; it happened to someone else. To a Rama, a Krishna, a Christ—and you have simply believed. You have not taken the trouble to know. Believing is cheap; knowing is costly. For knowing you have to pay the price. And only when you pay the price does religion become cash. The price is heavy—you have to pay with your very life.

Borrowed religion is dirt cheap. Read the Gita—you’ve “got it.” Read the Bible—you’ve “got it.” Borrowed religion is on offer everywhere. You get it from parents, from pundits and priests. Cash religion cannot be got from another. For cash religion you have to dig a well within yourself; you have to excavate deeply. The inner journey is long, because we have wandered very far from ourselves. For lives upon lives we have kept going away from ourselves. To come near now is not easy. We have raised a thousand obstacles in between. We have even forgotten where we left ourselves. There is no address, no clue as to where you might meet yourself again. There is no memory left that once there was such a meeting. Mountains of forgetfulness have piled up.

Cash religion means: you will have to cross all these mountains. Had these mountains been outside, crossing would have been easy. They are within—of thoughts, of emotions, of prejudices, of notions. And if the digging were outside, it wouldn’t be so difficult; you could pick up a spade and dig. This digging is within. It can only be done with the spade of meditation. And the spade of meditation is not sold in the marketplace; it has to be forged by oneself, inch by inch, by one’s own labor.

Religion is always cash—that is, religion is always by direct experience, by self-realization. So take whatever is borrowed to be irreligion.

Mind this: I do not call the atheist irreligious. The atheist is without religion, not irreligious. There is an absence of religion. Irreligious I call the Hindu, the Muslim, the Christian, the Jain, the Sikh, who—accepting another—has stopped his own search; who says, “Why should I search? Baba Nanak searched and found. Why should I search? Kabir has searched and found.”

And it is not that Nanak, Kabir, Dadu, Raidas did not find truth—they did. But they found because they dug within themselves. If you truly love Nanak, then dig within as he dug. If you are truly a follower of Krishna, do not walk behind Krishna. This may seem puzzling, because to follow means to walk behind. In my language to follow means: walk as Krishna walked. Do not walk behind Krishna, for Krishna did not walk behind anyone. If you walk behind Krishna, you are not following Krishna. Krishna followed no one. He walked within himself. You too, like Krishna, walk within yourself.

If people really understood the true masters, they wouldn’t run after them. The very moment they understand, the very hint is enough to make them dive within. There, and only there, is the diamond of religion found. Otherwise you are collecting trash. Memorize the Vedas as much as you like, commit the Upanishads to heart—nothing will come into your hands; you will remain empty.

Borrowed religion means scholarship; cash religion means experience.

You ask: “Is your teaching a cash religion?”
Whoever has known—everyone’s teaching is of cash religion.

Man is dishonest. Whatever he wants to avoid, he manufactures counterfeit coins for it. Thus he deceives others—and worse, he deceives himself.

Look: if you want to love, you love yourself. You don’t say, “Majnun has already loved, what need have I? Great lovers have come and gone. Everything has been explored. I shall read the book of Laila-Majnun. I will memorize it. I will recite it every morning. Why should I love?” No—you love yourself.

If you want wealth, you don’t recite the names of wealthy men from the past; you set out yourself in search of wealth. There you don’t cheat. But you don’t want to undertake the journey of religion; still, you want the world to believe you are religious. So you devise a trick: “I shall walk behind Buddha; I will memorize the Dhammapada. I will accept Zarathustra. I will worship Christ. I will offer flowers to Krishna. I will bow in the temples. I will go to the Kaaba. I will bathe in the Ganga.”

Thus you fool the world—and slowly you fall into your own illusion. By and by you feel, “What more is needed? I am religious. I go to Kashi, I bathe in the Ganga, I read holy books, I wear sandal paste and sacred thread, I keep a tuft of hair—what more is required?”

No—you do not want religion. That is why you have invented all these devices. If you want religion you will ask, “How do I experience? The God enthroned in temples is of no use to me—how will he be enthroned within me? People say he is within me—and I don’t know it—and I am searching in temples!”

Cash religion takes you within. The search for cash religion begins with eyes closed. The search for cash religion is not through thought but through thoughtlessness; not through scriptures but by becoming free of all scriptures. If you have to be free of words themselves, how will you be bound by scriptures? Scriptures are nothing but a net of words. However lovely the words, they are still words. When you are hungry, “word-food” won’t fill the belly. When thirsty, you can sit with the chemical formula H2O in your hand—your thirst won’t be quenched. Not that the formula is wrong; it is the recipe for water. Nor are the cooking methods in a cookbook wrong. But what will methods do? When will you cook? When will you light the fire? When will you put the pot on? Everything needed is present within you. If food is to be cooked, it can be cooked right now. But you are hungry and sit with a cookbook in your lap—saying you are reading the Japji. All your books are cookbooks.

I am not saying don’t read books. I am saying don’t stop there. Reading should at least remind you: “Ah! Such truths have been experienced by people which I have not known yet. On this earth people have found such truths—and I am passing by without finding them. Too much time has been wasted. Now the moment to awaken has come—indeed, it is already late. Now I will search and dig. Now I will transform myself. Now I will pass through revolution. Now I will cook the food. People say there are lakes of water. People say they drank and were utterly fulfilled. I am thirsty. And since for centuries so many have said that the water is found—we have Buddha saying so, Mahavira saying so—then I too must search.”

But it is found by searching, not by believing. Experience is the only door to the divine. Therefore all true religion is cash.

Those you call religious, I know, are not cash; they are borrowed. That is why there is so much talk of religion in the world and not a fragrance of it. There are countless temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—and nowhere does the song of religion arise. One cannot sense the scent of religion in the air. The earth seems empty of religion.

Compared to these irreligious ones you call Hindus, Muslims, Christians—the atheist is better. Why? Because at least he is not involved in a lie. And one who is not involved in a lie, who has not been entangled in books, who has not drowned in the net of words, has a greater possibility of awakening—for how long can he remain hungry and thirsty? His thirst will sting, his throat will burn, a blaze will arise. His hunger will thunder in his belly; his soul will cry.

One who says, “I have not known God—how can I believe?”—is he not saying, “When I know, then I will believe”? What else is he saying? The atheist is only saying: “When I experience, then I will accept; as yet I have no experience. I still need the proof of experience. When my eyes open, I will accept the light.”

One who has believed in light with closed eyes will never get his eyes treated; there is no need. The matter is finished. But one who has not accepted light in the absence of eyes will be pained by the thought, “I am blind. People say there is light; I do not see it; surely I am blind. I must do something—some treatment, some medicine. I must find a physician to heal my eyes so that I too may see.”

An atheist, if not today then tomorrow, will become a theist—he has to! The danger is with the false theists; they never become true theists. Whenever an atheist comes to me, I rejoice: here is an honest man, one who has not put his trust in others; whose sole loyalty is to his own experience; who, lacking proof at present, keeps silent—or says, “I cannot believe yet”; who will say “yes” only after he tastes. Such a man can be led to taste. The real difficulty is with the fakes, who know nothing yet keep saying, “Yes, God is.” The danger is with these yes-men who have never heard a single inner note and yet sway about as if a shower of music were falling upon them!

This lie will harm others—but most of all it harms oneself. Sway falsely long enough, and swaying becomes a habit. Bow falsely long enough, and bowing becomes a habit. And when bowing becomes mere habit, the juice is gone; no life remains in it; no elixir. Bowing is no longer true, no longer surrender.

Do not bow falsely, and do not say false “yes.”

Even more honest than the atheist is the agnostic. Agnostic means: “As yet I do not know, so I will neither say yes nor no.” There are four kinds of people on the earth. First: those who speak because they know. Second: the false ones who, hearing others, parrot and repeat. Third: those who have not known and deny. Fourth: those who have not known and neither affirm nor deny; they say, “As yet we cannot make any statement.” The fourth is the most honest; he has the greatest possibility of becoming a true theist. Next in possibility is the atheist. The least possibility is with your so-called hollow believers—they are in the deepest pit.

Avoid borrowed religion if you want cash religion. Only cash religion brings fulfillment.

You ask: “Is your teaching a cash religion? Is it to enjoy godliness every moment?”
God is you. God has come into you. You are a wave, a ripple, of God. This is my vision. I am telling you my experience. Do not believe it. Your believing will not help. Do not stop at my words. Take only a hint from them. Let them become a question within you: “If he says so, let me also search and see whether it is true.” Let it become inquiry in you, not belief.

The function of the true master is to awaken inquiry. See how Shandilya’s aphorisms begin: “Therefore, now, inquiry into devotion!” Badarayana’s Brahmasutra begins: “Therefore, now, inquiry into Brahman!” These wondrous scriptures begin from inquiry. The true master gives inquiry—intense, deep inquiry. He shakes you and raises your thirst—your thirst; he refines your thirst. He does not give you consolation, because all consolations are false. He gives you discontent, because discontent brings movement and growth.

Consolations are dangerous, poisonous. But you are always in search of consolation. You want someone to hand you doctrines like toys so that you can clutch them to your heart and sit content.

That is why people avoid the true master and are drawn to the false. The pseudo-guru is much loved; crowds gather there. Only a few courageous ones go to a true master. It is work for the chosen courageous. It is a game with fire. It means you are going to one who will make you so discontented that you will have to set out on the journey to the divine; who will inflame your thirst so much that you will have to find the lake—whatever the price, even if it is life itself. He gives you such a thirst that it becomes more important than life; life can be sacrificed.

People want consolations. People are afraid of death. They want someone to assure them that the soul is immortal. They want someone to assure them that God is taking care of all their worries. They want someone to assure them that whatever bad has happened is due to past karma—thus past karma is erased, trouble is over, and now only auspicious days are coming. Someone to assure them that as we are, we are perfectly fine; nothing special needs to be done. Someone to hand them the name of Rama: just repeat it morning and evening a few times and all will be well. Some cheap medicine. Someone to say that even if you take the name of Rama at the time of death you will cross over. Listen to the story of Satyanarayana and you will cross. Conduct bhajan-kirtan at home and you will cross. Offer food in the temple and you will cross. Pluck flowers from the neighbor’s garden, offer them in the temple, and you will cross.

Even the flowers are not yours—they belong to the neighbor’s garden! The flowers had already been offered to God on the trees—in the most beautiful way. You tore them down, killed them—and offered them to stones. You offer flowers to stones? Change the situation—place stones at the feet of flowers! Stones are dead; flowers are alive. You place life on the dead? Place the dead at the feet of life.

Cheap devices—just to get consolation, a little comfort. Life is already full of discontent: no wealth, no position, no prestige, no success, no fame, no name. If you go to a true master, he will say: this discontent is nothing; the real discontent has not yet arisen—that God has not been found. You had gone with your troubles, asking for blessings to get position, prestige, wealth, fame—“With your blessing, Master, what cannot happen!” But a true master will tell you that all this is nonsense. You have not yet seen the real fact—that God is not found. You have not even met yourself; what else will you get? It is good you have come; now I give you a new thirst, a new inquiry. Set to work to find yourself. The false guru will bless you, give you a talisman, a mantra: “Don’t worry—if you recite this, you will certainly win the next election.”

Look—every leader in Delhi has an astrologer! Your greatest leaders are childlike. Every big leader asks the astrologer: “When should I file my nomination, in which auspicious moment, which hour? Will I win this election or not?” They go to the so-called gurus for blessings.

A leader once came to me by mistake, for my blessing—he was contesting an election. I said, “You have my blessing—may you certainly lose. Those who win go astray. If you lose, perhaps you will remember God. Win—and you will drown in Delhi; sooner or later you’ll end up at Rajghat. Lose—and you will be saved from Delhi. The wise have said: for the defeated there is Hari’s Name.”

He panicked: “What inauspicious words you speak! Don’t say such a thing, please!” He was sweating. “Are you joking?” He grew frightened: “Where have I come? No one tells anyone to lose.” I said, “Now that you have come, I must bless you. You asked—I will give. I can only give a blessing that is truly a blessing. What will you do if you win? Be abused? Winning will only give more pleasure to your ego. The more pleasure the ego gets, the farther you will go from God. Are you asking me for a curse?” He said, “But other gurus bless me.” I said, “Then they are not gurus—go to them.”

With a true master you will feel uneasy, because he is not there to fulfill your ambitions. How much understanding do you have? How large are your ambitions? He sees something vast that you do not even suspect. You have come asking for pebbles; he sees diamond mines pursuing you. He says: drop the pebbles! The sooner you lose in pebbles the better. Lose, so that your eyes may turn within. Miss here, so you get a little room, an opportunity, to see what lies within you. Be broken outwardly, with no means left, utterly frustrated—only then will you go within. The defeated remember Hari. The winner struts in arrogance.

Haven’t you seen? When a man succeeds, he forgets God. In pleasure one forgets God; in pain one remembers.

So the true master is one who tells you: become more miserable—and more miserable. Your miseries are not enough yet. They have not broken your sleep. You need more pain. The true master will drive more arrows into your chest—so that their pain itself awakens you.

Religion can only be cash—but you must pay the price. That is why it is called cash.

Cash religion has another meaning too: that which can be had now, this very moment; for which you need not wait for tomorrow.

God is not something that comes tomorrow. Open your eyes, and you have him now. He is here now. But you say, “Not now. I have a thousand other things to do. If I find God now, how will I do my thousand things? Not now. Just bless me so that when I need him, then he will be available.”

First you borrow religion from the past, and then you push God into the future. Understand the strategy of your mind. Your religion belongs to the past, and God is always in the future. You reserve the present for the world. That is why you take religion from Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ. When Krishna and Buddha were alive, you did not take from them, because they were present. Then you took religion from the Vedas and Upanishads. And when the seers of the Vedas were alive, you did not learn from them. You have a strange liking: you always take religion from dead gurus, because the religion of a dead guru does not hinder you. It does not prick like a thorn; it gives you a bed of flowers. It gives consolation, not truth. And you do not want truth—you want consolation.

Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that people do not want truth. He wrote: whenever I told people the truth, they abused me; whenever I told untruths, they smiled and thanked me. People do not want truth. Do not give people truth, otherwise they will never forgive you.

It seems true; otherwise why was Jesus crucified? People could not forgive. Why was Socrates given poison? People could not forgive. People do not want truth.

What was Socrates’ crime? The case was tried in court. What was the crime? There were many charges; the foremost was this: Socrates forcibly explained to people what truth is. A man going about his work would be stopped by Socrates on the road; Socrates would start raising questions the man did not want to face—“I am going to the market, I have work to do.” Socrates harassed people like this, catching them on the street. It is said that when people saw Socrates coming they fled into alleyways. They slipped into others’ houses to avoid him, so he wouldn’t raise some point—because every point of his was sharp.

The court told Socrates: “We can let you go, if you stop preaching truth. Your life can be saved. Only promise you will be silent. People do not want these talks—why do you do it? If you assure the court you will now keep quiet and not speak of truth, you can live; otherwise death is certain.” Socrates laughed: “Then what is the point of living? To bring truth into the world is the very purpose of my life. Truth is my only business. If I live, the work of truth will continue. I cannot give such a promise.”

You have never forgiven living Buddhas. Yes, when Buddha is gone, you place flowers on his book. Convenient. A book cannot wake you up. In fact, a book makes a good pillow—you can sleep more deeply on it.

You cannot make a pillow out of a true master. A true master is fire. Pillows are not made of embers. Embers burn—burn badly! But only in that burning is your refinement. From that very death is your resurrection.

Nietzsche is right: people do not want truth. He also said: if people get truth, they quickly turn it into untruth. That too is right. They plaster it with cosmetics, trim it here and there, blunt its edges, give it a smooth roundness, put it into such language and doctrinal webs that its sharpness is gone, its sting is gone. Then it no longer wounds; it becomes a balm. The dagger that could pierce your being, the spear that could go through you—they grind it into ointment. People want lies. Lies are very sweet.

You live in lies. Someone tells you, “I love you,” and you bloom—and you have never even asked whether there is anything in you worthy of being loved! If someone reminds you, “Brother, there is nothing lovable in you—how can anyone love you?” you become angry. He has touched your truth, your nerve, your pain. You want ointment and bandage. You want people to say, “You are so sweet, so good!” And you know you are not. You know it; that is why you want to hide it. You honor those who keep giving consolation to your mind in some form.

Hence the power of flattery in the world, the miraculous power of praise! Tell the ugliest man he is handsome—he believes it. Tell a fool he has unique genius—he believes it. Tell a blind man his vision is far-reaching—he believes it. No doubt arises. He wants to believe. He knows he is blind; that truth hurts, it stings. If someone says, “What madness—blind? Such lovely eyes! Such joy-giving eyes!”—a tickle arises within, and he accepts that you must be right. He wants to accept you are right—so he accepts.

Thus we keep bandaging one another, consoling one another. Here we are all accomplices in each other’s sleep. When a true master, a Buddha, a Krishna, a Nanak stands up and starts waking you from sleep, you grow very restless. “Who has come to break my dreams? Such sweet dreams were flowing! I was in palaces; a golden crown was on my head; celestial nymphs danced around me. Who has come to shatter these lovely dreams? Who has started this talk of truth, and at such an untimely hour?”

Yes, truth is fine—in the past or in the future. No one wants truth in the present. Cash religion means: truth in the present—not in the past, not in the future.

Just look within; you will see what I say very clearly. People say there were enlightened ones in the past. People say there will be enlightened ones in the future. But you cannot accept that in the present an enlightened being is born. Where is the difficulty? After all, those who are now in the past were once in the present. Then you denied them too. Mahavira was denied. Buddha was denied. Christ was denied. Lao Tzu was denied. Even then people said, “Yes, there were knowers—but where are they now?” Even today they say, “They were before—where are they now?” Tomorrow too they will say, “They were before—where are they now?” They are always “before.” Never “now.”

Why? What prevents you from accepting the present? If today someone has awakened, what are you doing with your life? If someone today has become a Buddha, where are you? To accept that someone has awakened today pricks like a thorn: “No, this cannot be—because then a restlessness begins: has my life gone to waste?” In the past—fine; those were the days of the Golden Age. But now, in this Iron Age? And in the future, too, you agree—Kalki will come, Maitreya will come, Christ will return—tomorrow!

You accept the back and the front; you do not accept the middle—which is the actual truth, the real moment, the only reality of time. The past is only memory; the future only imagination. Neither has any existence. Existence belongs to the present.

I tell you: Buddha is today. Religion is today, now.
If you wish to awaken, awaken today.

“‘When’ means you have begun to postpone. I say: Now! And you ask: When? Why not now? Tomorrow will be the same kind of day as today. The day after tomorrow will also be the same as today. So it was yesterday; so it was the day before. So it will be tomorrow; so it will be the day after tomorrow. The same current of time is flowing. The wheel of life is turning just the same. There is no difference. If you are to awaken—then now. Either now or never.

You ask: ‘Master, when will I awaken?’
Your mind simply won’t accept one thing: that awakening can happen now. If I were to tell you, ‘Yes, certainly—you will awaken in the next life,’ you would relax. Then the whole burden drops from your mind. You’d say, ‘Then for now let me go—let me run the shop! Let me go fight the election. Let me earn some money. There’s still time before awakening. Let me dream a little more. Let me turn over once more and hide in the quilt. It’s a sweet morning, a chilly morning! This is no time to get up; there’s plenty of time yet. We’ll see next life.’

And in the next life too you will go to someone like me and ask: ‘Master, when will I awaken?’ This is exactly what you asked in your last life. You are not new here. For lives upon lives you have been playing the same trick. You asked Buddha the same thing: ‘Master, when will I awaken?’ And Buddha said: ‘Now!’ But it did not appeal to you. You said, ‘How can it happen now? There are a thousand other things to be done.’

Buddha came to a certain village for thirty consecutive years, and for thirty consecutive years a man kept thinking, ‘I must go for Buddha’s darshan,’ and he never managed it. It sounds hard to believe. Thirty years is a long time. When he heard that Buddha was near death, then he ran. That morning, before leaving the body, Buddha said to his monks: ‘If anyone has anything to ask, ask now; my last hour has come.’ The monks had nothing left to ask; they had asked all their lives and still had not understood, so what more could they ask now! They had become addicted to asking—and to hearing. They kept on asking, Buddha kept on answering; yet everything remained as it was. They began to weep. Now panic seized them too: tomorrow the Master would not be there; their questions would remain, but there would be no one to answer.

If you have borrowed answers from outside, sooner or later you will be in trouble—tears will come to your eyes. Because answers from the outside will one day stop. How long can I go on giving you answers? Do not depend on my answers; otherwise religion becomes a loan. Let my answer be only a push to help you search for your own answer—that is enough. Let the work begin. Otherwise, some day I too will have to tell you, ‘Now I am going. Tomorrow I will not be here to answer your questions.’ Then you will weep. You will say: ‘Our questions remain just the same. You gave the answers, but when did we ever take them? You gave them, but when did we ever live them? You gave them—they were yours; when did they become ours? They came from above and passed above; we remained as we were.’

You will weep too. That day Buddha’s disciples wept. But Buddha said: ‘Now weeping will not help. So many times I told you: Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! You kept postponing to tomorrow; now tomorrow I will not be here. Now everything is to be settled today—if there is anything to ask, ask.’

Nothing occurred to them to ask. When there is the convenience of postponement, one asks lofty questions: ‘Is there a God or not?’ When there is no room to postpone, it becomes very difficult. No one actually wants to know God—right now. Think honestly: do you really want to know right now, this very moment? If I were to take your hand and say, ‘I will take you today itself,’ you would say, ‘Please let go of my hand! My wife will be waiting at home, and there are children too. I’ll come again.’ And if you became more frightened of me, you might never come again.

In that village, a man named Subhadra heard: ‘Buddha’s life is ending today.’ He was startled. He said, ‘Thirty years have passed; how many times I thought I must go, must go, must go—but something or other always came up.’

Things always come up. Between you and God, things always come up. Just when you were about to go, guests arrived at home. Just when you were about to go, customers came to the shop. Just when you were about to go, your wife fell ill. Just when you were about to go, the child fell and broke his leg. Thus, one thing after another kept coming, kept coming. All those things keep going on; the one who is determined goes in spite of them. Whoever thinks, ‘When everything is settled, then I will go to God,’ never goes at all. Are tasks ever finished? Is anything ever complete here? Nothing here is ever complete.

One day he ran off, leaving the shop. His wife said, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘Enough of this nonsense! For thirty years you have been stopping me.’ His son said, ‘But where are you going, after all?’ He said, ‘Don’t even start talking.’ Customers came into the shop; he said, ‘Do whatever you like. If you want to loot the shop, loot it—I am going!’ It had gone too far. ‘I have waited thirty years, but something always comes up.’

He ran and arrived. Buddha had already taken leave. He had said to his monks, ‘If there is nothing more to ask, I will now close my eyes and go deeper.’ He went behind the tree and closed his eyes. He had left the first layer of the body; he was leaving the second layer when Subhadra arrived. Subhadra began shouting, ‘I must have darshan! I have something to ask!’

The monks said, ‘Now it is too late—far too late. And Subhadra, what were you doing for thirty years? We kept hearing that Subhadra wants to come, wants to come, wants to come. What were you doing for thirty years? Now it is too late. Now you cannot meet him. It would not be right. We have already given him our farewell. He has closed his eyes. He is absorbed in leaving the body.’

But Subhadra cried, ‘No! Let me meet him just once! At least let him look at me once!’

Buddha opened his eyes and came out. He said, ‘Subhadra! For thirty years you kept avoiding. You thought work came in the way. That was wrong—it was an excuse. All those tasks were excuses. There were tasks today as well—how did you come today? Those who stopped you before are stopping you even today—how did you come today? When someone wants to come, he comes. When he doesn’t want to come, he finds excuses. And I have had to leave my death-process to come and answer you, because I do not want people later to say that Buddha was alive, a man came to ask a question, and went away without asking, without receiving an answer. I will not take that responsibility. Although I know you will neither hear nor receive the answer—still, that is your business. Ask whatever you want to ask.’

And the story does not say whether Subhadra received the answer or not. Subhadra asked exactly this: ‘Lord, when will I attain enlightenment?’ What you have asked: ‘When will I be awakened?’

When! Even as Buddha is dying, you still ask, ‘When?’ I say to you: Now! This very moment! Drop the language of ‘when.’ ‘When’ means the future. ‘When’ means you have found a way to escape today. ‘When’ is an umbrella to shield you from the present. Drop this blanket of tomorrow. This blanket of tomorrow has been protecting you from today. And only today is—all is present today. In this very moment, the divine is as present as it ever was and as it ever will be—not a jot less, not a jot more.

The measure of the divine in this universe is always the same. Whoever gathers the courage to awaken can awaken now. Do not postpone. Do not defer.

The meaning of ‘cash’ religion is also that there is no need to postpone anything.”

Questions keep arising. They sprout in the mind the way leaves sprout on trees. They have no end. You ask a question, I will answer. From the answer ten more questions will arise, and nothing will really happen. Answers do not kill questions. Through answers, questions revive themselves; they become fresh again, they become stronger. If answers could resolve questions, all questions would already have been resolved. Do you think you can ask a new question? There is nothing new under the sun.
What you have been asking me was asked of Buddha, of Krishna, of Kabir, of Dadu, of Dhani Dharamdas. The questions you bring to me have been asked countless times, and they have been answered countless times. The questions are the same; the answers are the same. How could it be otherwise? Truth is one. The language changes a little, the style adapts to the age, the illustrations may differ, but the point does not change. The essence does not change. Buddha offered one kind of example; I offer another—that is all. Buddha used one kind of language; I use another. Buddha used the language his listeners understood; I use the language my listeners understand. That is the only difference. But what is being said is the same.

The bottles change; the wine is the same. The labels on the bottles change; the wine is the same. Language and styles change with the times; the wine is the same.

Questions are not solved by asking them; if they were, they would have been solved long ago. There isn’t even a single new question that can be asked.

Then how will questions be resolved? Questions are an intrinsic part of the mind. Until you are free of the mind, you cannot be free of questions.

Therefore the true work of the satguru is not to kill the questions, but to kill the questioner. The question is just a pretext. Under the pretext of the question, the satguru begins to kill the questioner. By breaking the question apart, he slowly breaks the questioner. And the day the questioner dies and no questions arise within you, that day the answer arrives.

Keep this in mind; let me repeat it. As long as there are questions, the answer will not be found. How can a mind filled with questions receive the answer? Where does such a mind have the capacity to hear and understand it? A mind packed with questions will seize even the answer and extract ten more questions out of it. Just watch the mechanics of your questioning, and you will understand what I am saying.

A man once came to me. He said, “I have only one question.” I said, “Then make sure it remains only one; let there be no second.” He hesitated a little. But since he had already said he had only one, he said, “All right.” I said, “Are you a man of your word or not? Let it be only one question—no second should arise.” He said, “Only one question.” He thought it over carefully, closed his eyes—as if, when one may ask only one, one should choose carefully. He asked, “Has this earth, this world, truly been created by someone?” He thought he was asking a very profound question.

I said, “Certainly. God is hidden behind all.”

He said, “Then a question arises.” I said, “We will not let any more arise now.” But he said, “It arises anyway. Whether you let it arise or not, whether I say it or not, the question arises: if God exists, why is there suffering in the world? Why disease? Why cancer? Why tuberculosis? Why are there poor and rich?”

Do you think if his question were answered it would be resolved? I asked him, “If I answer this, then you will not ask another?” He said, “Now I cannot give that promise. I got into trouble making that promise earlier; your answer has raised a new question.”

As long as the basic mechanism of questioning is alive—the name of that mechanism is mind. Mind means: a machine for producing questions. Put anything into it, and it comes out as a question. The mind’s knack is to put a question mark on everything. Feed it anything, and it quickly twists it into a question and brings the question up to the surface. No question is going to be resolved so long as the mind remains.

Therefore, Veena, do not get entangled in the worry of questions. How can the mind go? How to be free of the mind? How to bring about the state of a-mani—no-mind? Seek only that. If the mind goes, the root is cut; then leaves no longer sprout. Let there be no-mind.

And notice, the word “aman” is very lovely. One meaning of aman is: the mind is no more; another meaning is: peace. Both point to the same thing. Where the mind is absent, peace happens. Where there is no mind, there is aman, there is rest; there the flute of ease plays. Then no questions arise. And where questions do not arise, I call that: astikta.

You have always understood astikta to mean: one who does not doubt. But if the mind is there, doubts will arise—whether you make them or not, whether you speak them or not.

Astikta means: where the mind is no more, where questions simply do not arise. The doubter himself is gone. The very source of doubt is destroyed. What remains is consciousness—mindless consciousness.

Do not spend your energy, your whole strength, on solving questions. Put all your energy into becoming free of the mind. One name for that is meditation; another name is devotion—whichever is dear to you.

Keeping Veena in view, I say: devotion will be more congenial.

Union is possible. If you dissolve, union happens. You are the obstacle—there is no other. It is difficult. Without union there is pain. There should be. If you have come to me, I will intensify it.

How the days of my life are passing—
that I cannot tell you; what can I do?
I feel the ache of your separation,
yet I cannot come to you; what can I do?
This cool, cool fire that is called love—
this fire I cannot extinguish; what can I do?

This fire must be made greater; it is not to be put out. This fire must deepen. This fire must be fully ignited. Put as much kindling into this fire as you can. Feed it with as much fuel as you can. When this fire blazes fully—that is the yajna, the sacred sacrifice. Those yajnas you perform by building a sacrificial fire-pit are hollow, false, hypocrisy, a net of priests, devices of exploitation. The real altar is built within. This is that fire—the fire of love! The fire of devotion!

In this world love can never be satisfied, because whatever you attach your love to here is transient. A bubble on water—born now, gone now. Love longs for an eternal vessel: such a one that, once union happens, it never loosens again; where separation never returns; where divorce is impossible; where union itself means: we have merged, become one—there is no way to be two again. Where in union two do not remain—two become one; only one remains: non-duality remains.

For now, instead of going toward questions, move toward devotion and song. It is the same energy; if you mold it into questions, it becomes a philosophical journey; if you let it become tears in the eyes, weep in separation! If you yearn for union, weep in separation! Call out! Even if no answer comes, keep calling! Do not worry about an answer. If none comes today, simply understand that the call was not total—some doubt, some hesitation was there. Then call again. Call again and again. Keep calling. This much is certain: the day the call is complete, that very day the answer arrives. That very day the whole universe finds its voice. Existence speaks. Existence sways. Existence showers upon you from every side. For now, keep speaking. Even if no answer comes from the other side, do not be anxious.

When they are not with me, I speak secret words with them—
words that bring musicians to ecstasy; ah, the talk of that intoxicatingly coy Beloved!
Before which even music would blush… “words that bring musicians to ecstasy”—where even music itself faints and is absorbed. “Ah, the talk of that intoxicated grace!”—the talk of the Dear One, the Beloved!

No answer will come—and this is the devotee’s agony. He calls—and no answer comes. In the empty sky his whole call is lost. He sings songs—no sign comes from anywhere that anyone heard, or did not. He bows in prayer—but the Feet do not come into his hands.

For the veena, this alone is fitting: bow! Weep! Call out! Drop concern for questions. Do not get entangled in the labyrinth of questions. Then one day the happening happens. It surely happens. It has always happened. The law of the universe will not make an exception for you. It has happened without exception.

Do come this way sometime, raining rapture;
the breezes of the tavern’s courtyard send their salutations.
Whisper this thought to the Friend on the quiet:
someone’s fidelities send you their salute.

Send your salutations now! Bow now! Soon—on the day your bowing becomes complete—the Feet will be in your hands! But only when, on your side, there is completeness.

Do not divide yourself in questions now, otherwise completeness will never happen. A devotee should not be concerned with questions at all. In devotion, questions have no place. The devotee should care for love, not for questions. A little love is more precious than mountains of great knowledge. Two tears shed in love are more valuable than the entire skull of the learned. One sigh rising from love—and all the Vedas and all the scriptures grow pale! So cry! Sing!

In someone’s memory I am shedding tears;
I am telling the tale of the pain of love.
O present age, a little ahead of you,
I am going near the desired destination.
Since the news of his coming began to arrive,
I am adorning the sanctuary of the heart’s seeing.
Now is not the time to test Him;
for now, I am testing myself.
Each breath is my instrument of the Unseen, O Akhtar!
What I am hearing—I am letting the world hear.

Weep! Sing! If ever some hint is heard, if some whisper reaches you from that unknown realm, let the world hear it. If a single ray comes into your grasp, share it quickly lest it slip from your hands. If a single drop of that ocean falls into you, do not hide it away as hoarded treasure—share it! The more you share, the more it grows. If even a single note comes within your reach, hum it—give it to others! Then greater notes will begin to be heard. On that path, only those who give become gatherers; only those who lavish become truly wealthy.

Pragya! Just be in satsang! What will you do by understanding its glory? It’s like walking into an orchard heavy with fruit and asking someone to explain the glory of the fruit. These juice-laden fruits! You won’t taste them—only learn their praise? And birth after birth passes in “understanding the glory.” Suck these mangoes! Drink! Digest this nectar!

Let satsang happen with me! The glory of satsang…? Where taste is available, you still wait for words? Where food is at hand, you want to talk about food? Satsang can happen; it is happening. To all who are willing, it is happening. To all who have the courage to slide closer… what else does satsang mean—sliding close. Where Truth is glimpsed, sit there and settle in; don’t move from there. Keep edging nearer. Even if the Master pushes and drives you away, beats you and pursues you off, don’t worry. Just stay put! It is a test.

People get uprooted over trifles; they run off over tiny things. If one or two statements don’t suit their mind, they leave. “This doesn’t appeal to us. This isn’t written in our scripture. This doesn’t fit our book.” And they go!

Satsang can happen only when you leave your books at home and come empty. If you would keep company with Truth, come naked, come vacant. Take off your head and leave it at home. Come empty, so that Truth can enter.

Then, to receive Truth, nothing else is needed—only become a womb. A mood of acceptance… Leave the door open. Let me come in.

The situation is strange. I keep knocking at your door and you keep it tightly shut, bolted from within. And from inside you ask: “The glory of satsang!”

Open the door! Break the locks! You put them on; only you can open them. Gather a little courage to come out. Let go of a little security. Dare to be a little unsafe. Satsang will happen. The sun has risen; you have shut your doors and sit in darkness within. There is no veil over the sun—you have veiled yourself.

Pragya! Lift the veil! Remove it! Drink here; why ask for glory? From whom will you ask? Experience the glory! This is not a work of questioning and cross-questioning. Not a work of thinking and figuring out. Just drink.

Satsang is like wine; only the one who drinks knows. One who has never drunk can never understand any glory. This is the nectar of those who imbibe, the experience of drinkers. Satsang is a kind of tavern where wine is being poured—the wine of the Divine! In this intoxication, don’t protect yourself; don’t be clever.

In you, Pragya, I see a little cleverness and a little self-protection. You are here—not fully—you keep a little gap, a small distance. Just enough space that, if needed, you can slip away. Clever people always keep that much distance so that it doesn’t happen they cannot get out. Then satsang cannot happen. That’s why you asked for the glory. You asked so that perhaps, if the glory becomes clear, you might come a little closer.

And I tell you its glory every day. In fact, I say nothing else—I only sing the glory of satsang. Now the time has come to be in satsang.

“Satsang” is a lovely word. It means: to link yourself to the one who has found; to take the marriage rounds with him; to circle seven times around the fire with him.

Truth is contagious. If someone has found it and you sit near him, you will discover that one day, suddenly, before the monsoon month even arrives, clouds gather within you, begin to rumble, lightning flashes, and rain gets ready to fall. The parched earth of your soul, thirsty for lifetimes, nears fulfillment.

Truth is contagious. But be near; only then does transmission happen.

You see, when a doctor goes to a patient—like the Terapanthi Jain monks who tie a mouth-cloth—he too covers his mouth and puts on gloves, because illness is contagious. To be that close to the patient without gloves and mask is dangerous. And as soon as he sees the patient, he quickly goes and washes his hands with soap, cleans himself, rinses his mouth, lest any germ has entered.

If you want satsang, the process must be exactly the reverse. Remove the mouth-cloth! Take off the gloves! Remove all barriers. Let Truth descend. Truth is liberating. Nothing else is to be done; only don’t erect barriers. Truth does everything. This is the glory of Truth: Truth does it all. Just don’t obstruct. Be ready for the embrace. Spread your arms and say: I consent! I will go into the unknown, the unfamiliar, the uncharted. Wherever you lead, I will go. Whatever happens, happens. I stake everything. Then satsang happens.

And once you taste satsang, it keeps growing. Only the first sip is difficult. Once the first mouthful of the wine of satsang slips down the throat, then… then one becomes eager to drink. Then one drinks as much as is given. One digests as much as is given. Then the journey has no end.

Every breath is a hint of death,
life is a stream of tears.
With the redness of our own blood
we have brightened the face of life.
Today in the garden even thorns and dry grass
have taken on the form of rose and tulip.
The heart throbs as if
it were a broken, falling star.
In life’s desolate moments
now there is the support of your name.
Terrified of this life,
we have called upon death again and again.
Since she has shared our sorrow, O Ruhi,
every grief of life is acceptable.

The company of the Master is the beginning of satsang. The end of this beginning happens in the company of the Divine. That is why the scriptures have called the Master “God”—only because from the Master the first step of the journey to the Divine is taken; then the journey grows denser and deeper. And when the Master dissolves and the Divine enters, you don’t even notice.

Every breath is a hint of death;
life is a stream of tears.
What is there in your life except tears, except suffering? Why be afraid? Even if the Master takes something away, what will he take? Whatever you have—it is good if it is taken.

But people are strange! They sit with their bundle of miseries tied up. Perched on the bundle lest someone steal it, lest someone snatch it! What are you afraid of? Your condition is exactly like the old saying: a naked man wouldn’t bathe. Someone asked, “Brother, why don’t you bathe?” He said, “I could bathe, but where would I dry my clothes?” The other said, “Brother, what clothes?”

What are you so frightened about? What have you got to lose? Even if I snatch something from you, what could I possibly snatch? In the snatching, you can only gain; nothing of yours can be lost. Don’t be afraid. Keep this in mind: in this “snatching,” nothing of yours can be lost. You have nothing. Alas—if you had something, there would be no need of satsang! You are utterly empty. And what you think you have is only a pretense you maintain, that you must have something at least; otherwise there is great anxiety within.

I have heard: a thief entered a fakir’s hut one night. He was groping in the dark. The fakir said, “My brother! Don’t worry, let me light a lamp.”

The thief said, “What do you mean, light a lamp?”

The fakir said, “I’ll help you too. I’ve lived in this house for thirty years; I’ve found nothing. Searching in broad daylight I got tired, and you are searching in the dark of night! Perhaps by your luck something will turn up; then we’ll split it half and half.”

What is there in your house? You merely suppose there is something. Even if someone steals from your house, what will he steal?

I have heard another story. A thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. He spread his shawl to bundle the goods; he went inside to fetch things. Nasruddin lay down on the shawl, eyes shut, and stayed there. The thief returned and said, “This is the limit! There was nothing in the house, and now even my shawl is gone!” He said to Mulla, “Brother, at least give me back the shawl.” Nasruddin said, “Once in a while someone like you comes along; that’s how our life goes on. Where shall I give the shawl from?”

Another story. A thief entered someone’s house. There wasn’t anything special there. But since he had come and the night would be wasted, he thought, whatever junk there is, let’s take it. He tied it up and left. Halfway he noticed someone following. He turned and saw—it was the very man whose house he had robbed. He asked, “Brother, why are you coming?” The man said, “We were planning to move anyway. We’ll live where you live. You’ve already taken the stuff; where are you leaving us?”

What do you have? What are you so frightened of? Yet people are terribly scared that something might be taken, something might be lost! Those who have nothing are afraid of losing something—this is only a belief to keep themselves consoled that they do have something. Just open up the bundle and see: nothing but sorrows.

If the Master takes anything, he can only take away sorrows.

Every breath is a hint of death,
life is a stream of tears.
With the redness of our own blood
we have brightened the face of life.

Stay near the Master; move with him, sit with him. Live a little in that air, breathe it, and your sorrows will find a use. Their use is this: through sorrow the face can be made radiant. Your tears too will be used, for through tears your eyes can be bathed. This is the alchemy with the Master: he teaches you to use even the trash you have; he forges something meaningful out of it.

Today in the garden even thorns and dry grass
have taken on the form of rose and tulip.

If satsang happens, you’ll find even thorns have become flowers. “Today in the garden even the thorns and weeds”—grass, straws, thorns—“have assumed the form of roses.”

The heart throbs as if
it were a broken, falling star.
In life’s desolate moments
now there is the support of your name.

Satsang means: you have taken someone’s company, someone’s support. You are no longer alone. What else is the meaning of sannyas? Only this: you are no longer alone; you have taken someone’s hand; there is a hand in your hand.

Terrified of this life,
we have called upon death again and again.

What else have you thought of in this life except death?

Psychologists say it is hard to find a person who has not, two or four times, thought of suicide. And this seems true to me. Analyzing the minds of thousands, I too have seen that it is difficult to find someone who has not, a few times in some sad moments, some hours of grief, some instants of pain, thought of self-destruction, called upon death.

Your life has been spent calling death. Is that any life?

Since she has shared our sorrow, O Ruhi,
every grief of life is acceptable.

But if satsang happens—if you catch its color—then every sorrow of life becomes bearable. Then a ray of light enters your dark night. Then even the new-moon night is not utter darkness; a trace of the full moon begins to rise in it. The first line of the moon appears. Then the moon keeps growing, and darkness keeps lessening. One day the night of the full moon comes. It surely comes!

Make flowers smile—become a garden.
Be the song of the blossoms—the tale of spring.
Pour the glimmer of stars into every gaze;
in the constellation of our heart, become a milky way.
Lift the veil from your face—be the moon scattering grain-like light.
Bring solace somehow to this ruined heart;
if you will not desist from tyranny, then become kind.
Fulfill the ritual of love with your own “dew,” O Shabnam:
from the glance enter the heart—become the keeper of the secret.

Satsang is love in its supreme form. As two lovers become part of each other, so the Master and disciple become part of each other.

Did you not hear yesterday what the wealthy Dharamdas said! They merge into each other! Little by little the Master’s color soaks into the disciple. And slowly it becomes hard to tell where the Master ends and the disciple begins. The boundaries grow hazy. The disciple too becomes a representative of the Master—one note of his very veena, one flower of his very garden! In the disciple’s blossoming, the Master’s blossoming is included. In the disciple’s fragrance, you will also discover the Master’s fragrance.

Satsang is a process of life-transformation, and on the path of devotion it is supremely important! On the path of bhakti, nothing is more important than satsang.

But don’t ask the glory now—enter satsang.

The last question:

A mahatma has arrived, it seems!
What grudge do you have against food? What enmity with the body? The body too is His form. Taste is His taste. The relish of food is also a hymn to Him. What sickly mind are you carrying! You have fallen into the wrong company—into the company of the perverse—which people mistake for satsang. You’ve been spoiled by the friendship of someone of a twisted nature.

Your so‑called sadhus and mahatmas are anti‑life, anti‑body, anti‑joy. Their God is not the creator, the celebrant of life; their God is life’s enemy. In their reckoning, God and His creation are at odds—an idea stuffed with sheer foolishness. If God is the Creator, then creation is His unfolding. How can the Creator be opposed to His creation? Is a poet against his poem? Is a musician against his music? And if a musician is against music, why doesn’t he break the veena, put away the instrument, end the melody?

But God has not broken the veena; the song continues. Seeds still split and become trees. People still love and children are born. New stars are still forming. The world still turns. God did not create the world one day and then run away. Creation goes on every day, every moment. Every moment creation continues. Otherwise, who draws new sprouts from the seed? Who paints color on the leaves? Who adorns the butterflies’ wings? Who pours light into the stars? Who surges within you as love, who breaks forth as song? Who is the very ground of your life? Who is breathing you?

But your mahatmas are deeply opposed to the world. And whoever is against the world, I say, is also against God. Because whoever is against the poem is against the poet; whoever is against the dance is against the dancer. Whoever is opposed to the creation is opposed to the Creator.

Avoid these morbid‑minded people. Beware of such mahatmas!

Learn the love of life! Learn the delight of life! Only through the delight of life will you step by step enter the delight of the divine. Savor the poem, and the poem itself will take you to the poet. Dive into the dance, and by diving and diving one day you will find yourself in the company of the dancer.

Therefore I do not tell you to shrivel the body, to stand naked in the sun, to go sit in the cold caves of the Himalayas in winter. If you must perform stupidities, join a circus—why go so far, for so long, and create such commotion? If you want to fast, don’t dress it up in the robe of religion. You are simply suicidal. There is just a tendency toward self‑destruction in you, nothing else. Don’t hide it in a net of fine words.

Now you ask: “Please tell me, after realization is taking food also attachment to the body?”

After realization there is neither body nor soul as two. After realization Creator and creation are one, soul and body are one. After realization only one remains, not two. After realization a person doesn’t move by thinking, “What should I do or not do? Should I fast today or eat today?” After realization everything is simple and natural. On the day hunger comes, he eats; on the day hunger does not come, he does not eat. There is no doer in it—spontaneous, self‑arising.

Your condition is strange! You are not hungry and you eat; you are hungry and you fast! You are mad. Will you ever give nature a chance or not? Why do you keep putting spokes in the wheel? Your stomach is full and you go on eating. This too is misconduct, debauchery, because it is rape—violence against the body. And today you are hungry, but you are fasting because the Paryushan vows are on. Or because today is some religious fast day. Or you’ve fallen for the naturopaths—now, in the name of “natural therapy,” you are doing the most unnatural thing.

To be natural means: drop the decision‑maker. Let what is spontaneous happen. And you will be astonished to discover that whatever is spontaneous happens from the Divine; whatever is forced happens from you, from your ego.

Yes, such days do come—surely they come—when no impulse for food arises. If it doesn’t arise, the matter ends there. When no impulse arises, it means the Divine does not want to eat today—so don’t offer Him an offering today. On the day the impulse arises, eat—on that day the Divine wants to eat.

When sleep comes, sleep. When hunger comes, eat. Let your movement become spontaneous. Sahaj Yoga is the only yoga. Wherever there is non‑spontaneity, somewhere the human ego and its pretension are at work.

Now look at your anxiety. Realization hasn’t even happened yet, and you are worried about what will happen after realization! And you haven’t asked anything else—whether there will be liberation, nirvana, truth, peace, immortality. You didn’t ask any of that “nonsense.” What you’re worried about is food! You seem like a glutton. You are crazy about food. This is your obsession. This is your disease.

Some people live entirely in this disease. Their lives revolve around it. Twenty‑four hours a day they brood over it. When hunger comes, to eat is natural; but when the stomach is full and still to brood over food—that is a disease. Yet people are absorbed in such brooding. There are sadhus and sannyasins whose entire occupation is just this.

Once I had the misfortune to travel with a gentleman. A mahatma. Generally I don’t get along with mahatmas. By coincidence we ended up together. We were to attend the same conference. We landed in the same carriage, knew each other, so we ended up together. The organizers also thought, “They’ve arrived in the same compartment, so perhaps they’re companions, friends,” and put us in the same place. Only such luck could bring such trouble! I was very troubled seeing his whole way. His thought twenty‑four hours a day was fixed on food! And such subtleties—he would not take buffalo’s milk.

I asked him, “Is God not in the buffalo?” “No,” he said, “only cow’s milk—must be cow’s milk.” All right. The organizers arranged cow’s milk. Then he asked, “Is the cow white or black?” Then I said, “Now this has gone a bit too far.” “We will take only a white cow’s milk—that is our vow,” as if a black cow’s milk is black! Follies too... foolishness has such heights! Such refinements of stupidity! “How old is the ghee? It must not be more than four hours old. The food must not be cooked by a woman.”

I asked him, “When you were born, did you drink your father’s milk?” He became very angry: “What kind of talk is this?” I said, “I say it because God Himself has arranged that food from a woman sustains us from the beginning—otherwise He would have given fathers breasts. At least for mahatmas there would have been a special arrangement! You grew in your mother’s womb, your body formed from your mother’s flesh and blood, you grew up drinking at your mother’s breast—what ingratitude is this now, ‘We will not eat food touched by a woman!’”

“No,” he said, “you don’t understand; there is a great science in this. If a woman handles the food, the feminine element enters it and it arouses lust.” I said, “This is the limit! You drink a cow’s milk—the white cow—is she a bull? Does that not arouse lust? And that will stir an even more dangerous lust—you’ll become a bull. Your life will be completely ruined!”

He got so offended that he told the organizers, “Move me from this room. My whole sadhana is being disturbed. I have to answer everything and useless controversy is being raised.”

Watching his routine for twenty‑four hours, it was all this accounting—eat this, not that; touched by this, touched by that. Even the water drawn from the well had to be drawn wearing wet clothes. I asked, “What is the secret in this?” He said, “Actually the rule is that it should be drawn naked, but naked seems a bit indecent, so wet clothes—this is a slight compromise. For the sake of purity it must be done.”

And I said, “You are drinking the water wearing clothes! Wet your clothes! Or drink naked! Another man should bring it naked or in wet clothes—but what are you doing?”

You would be astonished if you kept the company of such mahatmas. You would be amazed at the arts they have invented.

You must have fallen in with some such perverse people. I regard them as sick—as mentally deranged.

After realization you could think of nothing else—you remembered food! Leave food to the Divine; the One who will see you through to realization will also take care of your food. If He makes you eat, eat; if He doesn’t, don’t. Don’t jam your spoke in the wheel in between—just remember this much.

The sense of duality, of conflict, sits so deeply in our minds. We are stuck in a rigidity: that we must struggle. Whereas the truth is, what we must do is not struggle but surrender. Leave it to God. Wherever He takes you, go. Let yourself be carried by the river’s current; don’t swim. And certainly don’t swim against the current. This swimming against the current is what you are doing. You will tire yourself needlessly, you will break. And when you are tired, broken, harassed, you will be angry at the river that it is your enemy. But the river is not your enemy; it simply flows in its own current. You are breaking yourself needlessly by making the river your enemy.

And remember, a part can never get anywhere by fighting the Whole. We are tiny, tiny parts of That. If my finger were to fight me, where would it reach? We are smaller even than a finger’s proportion to a body. In this vast cosmos, what proportion are we?

Do not fight the Vast.

What is inauspicious about hunger? What is inauspicious about the satisfaction of eating? Whatever is natural, spontaneous—that is true, that is auspicious, that is blessed. Surrender to the natural and spontaneous. From that surrender fragrance arises.

That’s all for today.