Ka Sovai Din Rain #6

Religion is not a torch. Anything that has to be kept burning is not religion. Anything we have to maintain is not religion. That which upholds us—that alone is religion.

Without wick, without oil! Religion has no wick and no oil. Religion is pure light. It needs no fuel. It is vastness itself. Dharma sustains the whole of existence. Will a scholar-priest sustain dharma? Then it would no longer be dharma. The priest can preserve “Hinduism,” the priest can preserve “Islam”—but not dharma.

Dharma becomes available to you the moment you gather yourself—at that very instant the lamp of dharma flares up. In truth, the lamp of dharma was already lit; only your eyes were closed. Gather yourself, and your eyes open.

Awaken. The moment you awaken, the moment you become conscious, you are astonished: what you were seeking was always within; what you were searching for far away was right here; what you looked for outside was inside you.

Dharma is your very nature. It is not a torch. A torch needs oil; when it begins to go out it must be tended; it needs someone’s hands. Dharma is that which holds all hands. You breathe because of dharma. You live because of dharma. The moon and stars move because of dharma. The earth is held in place by dharma. Dharma is the name of the law that sustains this cosmos.

How will scholars and priests sustain dharma? And if the priests sustain dharma, then who will sustain the priests? Understand this once and for all: what the priests preserve is not dharma, and cannot be dharma. Precisely because it is preserved by priests, it cannot be dharma.

Priests themselves are blind. They have not seen the light. How will they preserve what they have never seen? Yes, they can preserve the scriptures. But scripture is not dharma. Dharma is in the experience of the void. There is no dharma in words; dharma abides in the wordless. They know nothing of the wordless. If dharma lived in temples and mosques, they could preserve it. But dharma is vast. All temples and mosques are within dharma; dharma is within no enclosure.

Dharma means that which was before we came and will be after we are gone. We come and go—dharma remains. But surely that dharma can be neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither Christian, Jain, nor Buddhist. It is pure dharma. Whenever you awaken and open your eyes, you always find it with you—in your very life-breath, in your heartbeat. There is no need to go anywhere to find it.

Then what do the priests preserve? They preserve the corpse of religion, not a living flame. Dharma spoke through Buddha because emptiness spoke. On the veena of Buddha’s heart, that music arose which is called the unstruck sound; that sound arose. Dharma spoke through Buddha. Buddhism did not speak—remember this. Buddha was not a Buddhist, nor was Jesus a Christian, nor Krishna a Hindu. Dharma spoke through Buddha. Dharma spoke through Krishna. Dharma spoke through Christ. The priests caught hold of the words, collected and preserved them; they tied them up into bundles. Thus arose the Vedas, the Bible, the Quran, the Dhammapada. Then they keep carrying those bundles—and dust keeps gathering on them, layers of dust. Centuries keep piling up on them. Now even the words—where have they gone? They too are lost in dust and debris. A single scripture has been burdened with so many commentaries… the Gita alone has a thousand commentaries! In that jungle of a thousand interpretations, it is virtually impossible to know what Krishna actually said. If Krishna said a thousand things, then either Krishna was mad or Arjuna went mad listening. Krishna must have said only one thing. But what is it? How will you know?

Priests have great interpretations—how will you decide what Krishna said? There is only one way: go within. Krishna still speaks there. Become an Arjuna—Krishna still speaks. Become an Ananda and Buddha will speak again. He will speak the very same thing that was spoken then. It is not about Buddha or Krishna—dharma speaks. Buddha is one mode for dharma to speak; Krishna is another. The same is said as Buddha said—the same! The language will differ, the feeling is the same. The hues of expression will differ, but that which is expressed is the same. Only one thing has ever been said, again and again. Times change, languages change, symbols change, stories change, parables change. But that toward which the finger points does not change. The fingers that point change, but the moon they point to is the same. No one preserves that.

Yet priests do preserve something, certainly: the corpse. Buddha walked, and on the sands of time his footprints appeared. They preserve those footprints; they worship them, lay flowers upon them. But Buddha is not in the footprints. The one who walked is gone. And that which walked cannot be caught on the sands of time. It is eternal. In time you hear only a hint, an echo. The real is never grasped in time.

I walk down a road; my footprints form in the dust. If you cling to those very marks, you will miss—miss utterly. Worshiping those footprints will give you nothing. Forget them! Look toward the one who walked. Seek the one who walked. He has no footprints, because the one who walked is not the body. The one who walked is not form. The one who walked is not a word. Turn your attention to that. Peer into Buddha’s eyes.

Look into my eyes! Forget this body of mine! Do not get too entangled in what I say. If you get entangled in what I am, you will cross over.

A corpse remains. But what will you do keeping corpses? Your mother dies—beloved as she was—and who wishes that a mother should die? Yet when she dies, you take the body to the cremation ground, don’t you? She was in this body, true; but she is no longer in it—that is even truer. The bird that was in this body has flown; that swan is no longer in this cage. The cage lies here; the swan has flown. If the swan has flown, what will you do with this cage? Prepare the bier, take it to the cremation ground. Commit it to the fire; let it be reduced to ashes. If some ashes remain, immerse them in the Ganges. Let everything be offered up. It has to be done.

After every master this same obstacle arises. The master goes—the swan flies! Words remain. Footprints remain on the dust of time. Memories remain. People keep the recollections of what they saw and heard; they preserve those; worship of those begins. And that is what you call religion? It is a corpse. One should be free of it. Once free of it, you begin to seek the real. Once free of the cage, your eyes lift toward the swan. If you keep worshiping the cage, who will look toward the swan? Your eyes get filled with the cage. You get entangled in the cage. You get caught in the rituals of the cage. That is what is happening—in temples, mosques, gurdwaras, churches—that is what is happening: cages are being worshiped.

Religion is no torch. Religion is a visitation—the eternal appearing in time, the formless in form, the void in word. And when the master is alive, only then—if you can catch it, you catch it; if you miss then, you miss. Thereafter you can go on beating the lines your whole life, for lives upon lives—nothing will happen.

Scholars, priests, mullahs, padres keep beating the lines—line upon line. They keep decorating and embellishing those lines. With great skill. Through centuries they have become very adept. They go on splitting hairs—and there is nothing there. And the corpse lies there, reeking.

Don’t you see, a stench rises from all religions? Otherwise, why would Hindu and Muslim fight, if there were no stench? Has as much blood been shed in any other name as in the name of religion? Has as much inhumanity been done in any other name as in the name of religion? In the name of religion man has kept on fighting. Words of love were spoken while the edges of swords were being honed. Songs of love were sung while heads were being cut off. How much hypocrisy has happened in the name of religion! It still goes on. Because of this hypocrisy, humanity has remained irreligious.

Until you recognize the false as false, you will not be able to see the true as true.

It is essential to be free of the scholar-priest. Only in that freedom will the first faint glimmer of dharma begin to dawn in you. Leave the priests—befriend the moon and stars! Meet the flowers! Ask the rivers and the seas! This sky knows more. Lie under this sky in stillness. Let this sky descend within you. In the call of the cuckoo, in the songs of the birds—there, dharma is more alive!

Devanand! Those who said, “You must not listen to slander of the master,” cannot have been masters; they must have been very weak people. It is impossible that there be a master and there be no slander of him. That has never happened.

Do you have any idea how much slander Buddha had to face? So fierce was the vilification that Buddhism was uprooted from this very land. Buddha was born here; this country should have been blessed that Buddha was born here, for humanity had never seen such a flaming flowering of religion before, nor has it since. But unfortunate is this land! There was so much slander of Buddha that Buddhism had to vanish from here.

Do you think people honored Jesus, garlanded him with flowers? Then who was crucified? That was their honor! That was their garland!

Once Jesus went to his village. He was invited to the synagogue because news had spread that Jesus was a kind of master. He was asked to read to them a few lines from the Bible. The passage Jesus read had been read many times; people had been repeating it for lifetimes, for centuries. It was an old passage, the words of the prophet Isaiah. But the way Jesus read them, no one had ever read them—except Isaiah himself; no one had ever spoken in that way.

The words were: “I have come. Recognize me! Look to me! The one you were waiting for has arrived. Here I am!” If Jesus had said it like, “Isaiah said this,” there would have been no problem. But Jesus said, “What Isaiah said, I say to you: I have come—the one you were waiting for! Look into my eyes!”

And the villagers went mad. This was blasphemy. This man is calling himself a prophet! Where is Isaiah, and where is this village carpenter, Joseph’s son! They drove him out of the church. They took him to a hill to kill him. His disciples could barely save him, otherwise they wanted to throw him down the hill and drop a boulder on him—because blasphemy had been committed. That very day Jesus said, “No tirthankara, no prophet is honored in his own village.”

He never went back to his village. And within two years he was crucified. On the day he was crucified, every kind of indignity was heaped upon him. They made him carry that great cross on his shoulder up the hill. When he fell on the way, they whipped him and forced him to get up and carry it. It was uphill. The sun was blazing. The cross was heavy. That day Jesus turned back toward his disciples and said to the crowd, “Whoever would come to me must carry his own cross on his shoulders.”

When he was hung on the cross and nails were driven through his hands and feet, he became very thirsty. It was scorching, and he had had no water or food all day. That climb, that hauling of the cross! He asked for water, but no one offered water. Someone dipped a rag into a dirty drain flowing nearby, lifted it on a reed, and held it to Jesus’ mouth—saying, “Other than this, we have no water for you.” People were throwing stones, hurling abuses. That was their honor!

You did the same to Socrates. You did the same to Mansoor. This is your old habit. This is humanity’s perennial treatment of the true master.

And you ask, “It has always been forbidden to listen to slander of the master.”

Those who said so were not masters. Because if you are connected with a master, you will have to hear slander. If it stops at hearing slander, consider yourself fortunate. You may have to be stoned. You may have to give your life. All this will happen. It is absolutely natural. This is the price one pays on the path to the divine.

So I cannot tell you, “If anyone slanders me, don’t listen.” Listen with love! Listen with joy! At least on this pretext someone is remembering me! Thank him: “At least you have opened the topic!” Who knows—today he slanders; tomorrow he may love. Do not nurse ill will toward him.

Remember, the distance between love and hate is not great. Love can turn into hate; hate can turn into love. They can transform into each other. Haven’t you seen: friends become enemies! Who can say when love may turn into hate? Don’t you see lovers? Husband and wife sit in rapture in the morning, and by evening a quarrel erupts and they’re ready to annihilate each other. And the next morning they are delighted again, sitting together. Do you not see this play of love and hate? Like sun and shadow, it goes on.

So if someone is slandering me, one thing is certain: he has become curious about me. That’s a good sign. Some juice has begun to flow. At least he is not indifferent to me—that much is clear. Consider it a blessing. Listen with joy. Listen with calmness. Your calm and your joy may become the cause of his hate turning into love. Don’t quarrel with him. Don’t even try to explain or change him, because such attempts rarely succeed. But if you can remain quiet, if you can remain full of grace, if you can thank him and say, “At least, on this pretext, you remembered me—you made me remember! You pricked me with a thorn, but still I remembered! Flowers make one remember, and thorns too make one remember! I am grateful to you!”—then perhaps your serene behavior will startle him, shake him awake. Say only this much to him: “Slander as much as you like, but someday try to come close and see! Sit there for two moments! It may be that you are right—then your belief will be strengthened by coming. And who knows, you may be wrong—then you will be freed of a mistake.”

Whenever anyone slanders, do not try to explain. You will not succeed. This is not a matter of argument; it is a matter of love. Bring him close. This “disease” is contagious. Invite him. Say to him, “Come with me, you come too. If you turn out to be right, I will go with you tomorrow. But before deciding, it is necessary to come near.”

And remember one more thing: the one who is slandering me has already become intrigued. He slanders because he is now frightened by his own curiosity. Slander is a psychological defense. He is afraid that if he does not slander, he may end up coming to me. By slandering he is erecting walls, so that the possibility of coming is blocked. In my view, something auspicious is happening.

So I will not tell you to forbid slander, nor will I tell you to wash your ears. If you start that, your whole day will be spent washing ears! Don’t get into such foolishness. Whoever said such things must have been two-bit people. They themselves must not have had trust in their own being. I trust myself. You need not worry. Bring them to me by any means. And they do want to come—hence they slander.

Remember just one thing: the one who praises me is connected with me, and the one who slanders me is also connected with me. The only one deprived of me is the one who is indifferent. The one who says, “I have nothing to do with it—neither praise nor slander—I have nothing to do with it,” for him connection is very difficult. He alone is worthy of compassion. If you must explain, explain to the indifferent one. Even if, through your explaining, only slander arises in him, that too is good; at least there will be slander—something will happen—even if it is against me! He will be connected with me; a relationship will be formed.

Enmity too is a kind of friendship, a kind of relationship. Now and then in the night, he will remember me. Lying alone in bed, I will enter his dreams. Sometimes he will think, “What he said—was it right or wrong?” Let him think, let him ponder. You have no reason to be afraid.

Those gurus who told you to wash your ears had two kinds of fear. Their big fear was that if someone slandered, you might agree after hearing it. They were afraid of that. I trust you. You have managed to come to me after hearing all that slander. You have already passed through those touchstones. You have heard all the abuses one could hear; now it is hard for anyone to invent a new abuse. If someone slanders, tell him: “Bring something new. I have heard this already—many times—and in spite of it I am connected with him. Bring some new slander, discover something, be inventive. Why are you repeating these old, hackneyed lines!”

Those scriptures that prescribe, “Avoid slander; keep away…”—such scriptures were written by the weak. There are such texts in India—Hindus have them, Jains have them. In Hindu scriptures it is written: even if a mad elephant is chasing you and you could find refuge in a Jain temple, do not enter—because Jains are slanderers of Hindus; some slanderous word might fall on your ears. And in the Jain scriptures there is the exact reply, word for word: even if a mad elephant is on your heels and you are in mortal danger, and you could save your life by taking refuge in a Hindu temple, it is better to be crushed under the elephant’s feet than to enter a Hindu temple, because there some thought slandering Jain dharma might reach your ears!

These must have been very weak people. Is that any kind of teaching? How will you ever be saved by so much avoiding? And why avoid so much? Do you have no trust? Is your faith so incomplete, so impotent?

For one who has loved me, who has fallen in love with me, every slander will be a test, a challenge: can love remain even after all this slander? If it remains, only then was it worth keeping. If it does not, good—let the botheration end; you are free, and I am free.

I do not want to be connected with the weak. I do not want such floppy, wishy-washy people around me. They have no value. We are not here to swell a useless crowd. Something real has to be done here, not crowd-gathering. A real transformation of life is the work here; this is a laboratory. Here the chemistry of your transformation is being searched out. This is not a marketplace. Our interest is not in how many people come. I am not a politician that I should be interested in crowds. I have no interest in crowds. My interest is in individuals. And an individual means a rebellious spirit—one who thinks in his own way, lives in his own way; who walks in accord with his own trust.

And every slander will be a touchstone. Do not be afraid. And slander will increase. As I change people, slander will increase. Difficulties will increase day by day; they are not going to decrease.

Those who join me should join knowing this: you will have to carry your own cross upon your shoulders. But those who know will rejoice that once again there is an opportunity to carry the cross—because that is the way to come close to God. Death is the door to rebirth.

You are blessed to be connected with someone about whom there has been much slander, is much, and will be much more. Difficulties will grow harsher day by day, because the more it is seen that people are being drawn to me, the more obstacles will grow. And these obstacles will not come from one direction; they will come from all directions. Because here with me are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Jains, Buddhists, Sikhs, Parsis. People of all religions are with me; therefore the teachers of all religions are going to be against me—they already are. From every temple and every mosque, voices will be raised against me. This is natural. Not just a few will be against me. Against Jesus there were only Jews; against Buddha there were only Hindus. Against me all religions are going to be opposed, because all will feel anxious.

Letters have begun to come here—letters come from all over the world. Someone’s son has come and become a sannyasin; they are Christians; the parents are angry. They send threats: “You have distorted our son, deranged him; you have hypnotized him.” Someone’s daughter has taken sannyas; the family is Jewish; they are angry. People are coming here from all over the world. There will be slander all over the world. Buddha’s slander was only in Bihar—limited. Jesus’ slander was only around Jerusalem—a small area, very limited. My slander will be boundless—from one end of the earth to the other. You should be prepared for that.

So I cannot tell you, “Do not listen to slander.” You will have to listen. I can only say: listen with joy. And don’t go washing your ears. Why ruin your ears by washing them all day? If you pour so much water into them, gradually you will even lose the capacity to hear! Don’t bother with such things. Listen in a relaxed way. Listen joyously. Listen dancing. Listen laughing. Your laughter, your smile, your dance—let them become the cause of a change. The other will wonder—you will become a question mark standing before him. He will think, “I am slandering, and this man is not even disturbed. Surely something has happened. Surely he has found something I do not know about. I should go too and have a look.”

If you can do only this much—that your very presence becomes an invitation—that is enough; I will do the rest. Bring them here; leave the rest to me. If I have hypnotized you, I will hypnotize them too. People are people—alike enough.

The mind is very greedy. Out of greed it loses much. The mind raises “buts and howevers.”
You ask: “In your satsang I am experiencing great joy.”
But inside the mind must be getting restless. It says: I won’t let you experience so much joy—what do you think you’re doing! Know this: the mind is always pleased when you are miserable. Keep this sutra in mind. Whenever you are miserable, the mind is happy, because in your moments of misery the mind becomes the master. You start taking counsel from it. You ask: What should I do, what should I not do? The mind begins to direct.
In a sorrowful state the mind’s ownership tightens around you. When you are joyful, you put the mind aside. Who cares about the mind then! When you are joyful, there is nothing to ask of it. The state of joy starts carrying you beyond mind. The mind grows anxious; it wants to pull you back. It raises the question: What do you take this to be—joy? First of all, think a little—perhaps it is only imagination!
People come to me. I am still searching for the person who will come and say, “I am very miserable—perhaps this is only my imagination!” No one has said that till today. But every day someone or other comes and says, “It is very surprising; I am happy, yes, but a question arises: might this be imagination?” Why does this question not arise about suffering? If there is hell, you accept it as reality; and when a slight glimpse of heaven comes, instantly the mind asks: this must be imagination, a dream. Happiness cannot be. Is there such a thing as joy? Sorrow alone is real.
The mind believes only in thorns; it does not accept the flower. It believes in wounds; it does not embrace the blossom. And when, by some slip, a flower descends within you and a fragrance ripples inside, the mind grows suspicious and begins to ask “buts and howevers.” It says: It must be imagination, a dream; you are in some delusion; you have become entangled in some mistake. It is the influence of the atmosphere. Or you have been hypnotized. Think properly before you step further. There is danger here. Are you not falling into some illusion? Entangled in some web of maya? Fallen into a magician’s hands?
The mind always questions joy. Now it has raised this question: “But isn’t the joy of this fleeting life also fleeting?” You never ask this about sorrow. When sorrow is there you do not say: “Transient sorrow—why worry!” If you could say only this, you would be free. To know just this is liberation. What else is liberation? It is transient—here now, gone the next moment. Why worry!
No; at that time you become very agitated. Now that joy is happening, the mind says: it is transient. The mind becomes very wise, a great saint. It says: transient—do not get entangled! As if the mind has some way to give you eternal joy!
If you had to choose between transient sorrow and transient pleasure, what would you choose? All right, let us grant it is transient. Are your sorrows eternal? If you had to choose between a transient joy and a transient sorrow, what would you choose? Even then you would choose transient joy. Even if only for a moment—still, it is joy!
Then understand something more: that which descends into the moment can be a fragment of the eternal. The moon that forms in the lake is transient in the lake—throw in a pebble and the lake will ripple; the reflection will shatter, scatter, break into pieces. But that of which it is a reflection is not fractured by a pebble.
The shadows of the eternal that form in your mind are transient, because in the mind only the transient can happen. The mind is a wavy thing; waves are arising in it. But that of which the shadow is formed is eternal.
This is the difference between pleasure and joy. Pleasure is not the shadow of the eternal; it is the name of waves, just as pain is the name of waves. The waves you like are pleasure; the waves you dislike are pain. And you have noticed, there is not much distance between your pleasures and your pains. Pains can become pleasures, pleasures can become pains.
An emperor fell in love with a poor woman. He was an emperor; she was so poor she could be bought—no difficulty. He summoned the woman and her father and said, “Take whatever you want from the treasury, but give me this girl. I have fallen in love. Yesterday, riding past on horseback, I saw her drawing water at the well; since then I have not been able to sleep.”
The father was very pleased, but the daughter at once grew sad. She said, “Forgive me. If you command, I will come to your palace, but I love someone else. I may become your wife, but this love will be a barrier; I will not be able to love you.”
The emperor was a thoughtful man. He pondered, “There will be no substance in this. How will she love me?” They found out whom she loved: an ordinary man. The emperor was amazed: leaving me, she loves him! But love is always unreasonable. He asked his ministers, “What can I do to break this love?”
You will be astonished; the advice the ministers gave was very strange. You would not believe such advice was ever given. Because this advice... the story is old, about a thousand years before Freud. Freud could have given such advice; psychology can give it now—though even psychology would hesitate. The ministers said, “Strip both of them and tie them naked to a post—bind them to each other and to the post.”
The emperor said, “What will that do? Their very desire is to be bound in each other’s arms.”
They said, “Do not worry. Only, do not release them—keep them bound.”
They were bound in an embrace, naked, to a post.
Now think: the woman you love—no matter who she is, the most beautiful in the world; or the man you love—the very Mr. Universe; it makes no difference. How long can you remain in an embrace? At first both were very happy, because due to social obstacles they could hardly meet; castes were different, religions different; they would secretly exchange a few words here and there for a short while. Naked in each other’s arms! At first they were delighted and rushed to embrace. But when ropes tied them to the post, how long does pleasure remain pleasure? Within a few minutes they began to panic: How to separate now? How to be apart? How to get free? But they remained bound.
A few hours passed, and then another disturbance began. Evacuation of excreta and urine happened; filth spread. Each other’s mouths began to stink; sweat; such distress. And they had to remain bound for twenty-four hours. As soon as they were released, the story says, they ran away from each other so fast they never saw each other again. The young man even left the village.
This proved a wondrous—yet very psychological—way to end love.
You see in the West love is being uprooted, breaking. Why? There is no longer any obstacle between man and woman; therefore love is breaking. Man and woman have become so easily available to each other that love cannot survive; it will break. The joint family no longer exists in the West, so husband and wife remain alone in a house. When they wish, they meet; they say what they want; they sit as long as they like—no hindrance, no barrier. They are quickly used up; pleasure quickly turns into pain.
You have noticed: the same music, the first time you hear it—pleasure; the second time—not so much; the third time—even less; the fourth time—boredom arises; the fifth time, if someone puts the record on again, you think your head will spin; you say: now stop it—enough.
That same music gave pleasure the first time, less the second, even less the third. Economists speak of a rule: the law of diminishing returns. Repeat the same thing again and again and the quantity of pleasure keeps decreasing.
The old way preserved love. Husband and wife could hardly meet. In the daytime they could not meet at all; even a husband and wife could not meet—forget about someone else’s wife. In the West now, meeting another man’s wife is as easy as earlier it was not easy to meet one’s own wife. All day they could not meet. There were elders in the family—how could they meet in front of them! At night, even meeting was very clandestine. Meeting one’s own wife furtively! Because you could not speak loudly. Small houses with fifty people sleeping. Secretly, in the darkness of night. The husband did not even really know what his wife’s face was like—how could he in the dark? He had never lifted the veil and looked properly in the light. If love survived long, it is no wonder, because love, pleasure, had no chance to grow thin. All day both remained in their work, and remembrance continued.
Now conditions have reversed. Twenty-four hours they sit facing each other—the same post—bound. Irritation arises with each other. The wife wants: get up, go somewhere, do something—why sit here?
Life has strange laws. There is not much difference between pleasure and pain. The same excitement is pleasure, the same excitement is pain—if liked, it is pleasure; if disliked, it is pain. Only the difference of like and dislike. Both are waves. Both happen within time—waves on the lake of time.
Joy means: something is coming from beyond time; its shadow is forming in time. The shadow will of course be transient. The joy that happens in satsang is joy in a transient shadow; but if you understand the indication of the shadow and set out toward the source, the eternal will be found.
But the mind is greedy. It says: transient!
Understand one thing more: if you learn the art of remaining joyful even for a single moment, you can remain joyful your whole life, because at once only one moment is given—two moments never come together. If you know the art of coloring a single moment with joy, then each time only one moment comes—color it, keep coloring it; let the melody resound in it. The art has come into your hands.
Only one step is taken at a time; and one moment is given at a time. One who has learned the secret of rejoicing in a single moment has found the key; that key will open the gates of all heavens.
But in the questioner’s mind there is greed; and where there is greed, there will be doubt.
Read the question again and you will see where you slipped: “In your satsang I am experiencing great joy...” It likely is not an experience. “...and life appears like a celebration.” It must only be appearing so. You must have assumed that joy should be; so you think joy is happening. Sitting in satsang, joy ought to be—otherwise why sit here at all? You must have assumed it. Or others around you are joyful and their wave is touching you. If you sit unjoyous among the joyous, you will appear a fool, a clod. Where people are getting intoxicated, you also fall into merriment. But that will only be the contagion of the crowd, not your own experience.
Be careful: we are very quickly influenced by the emotions of the crowd. You have seen—if people are walking fast and you walk with them, you also begin to walk fast. If the crowd is fired up, you also get fired up. You begin to do what the crowd does. Sit among four laughing people and you forget your sadness; sit among four sad ones and you forget your laughter. You are quickly influenced by the crowd.
Here there is a crowd of satsangis. It may be that you are not feeling any special joy; but others are joyful—their wave touches you, plucks the strings of your heart-veena, and it begins to appear to you that joy is happening. Only then can “buts and howevers” arise—otherwise they cannot. If truly joy is happening to you, who cares whether it is transient! Even if joy is transient, it is better than eternal sorrows. And what will you do with the eternal if it is eternal sorrow—eat it or drink it? Will you choose an eternal hell or a momentary heaven? And even if you choose the momentary, it is a right choice; from that, slowly, the further journey opens. Step by step, a person completes a journey of thousands of miles.
No; but the question arises: “But isn’t the joy of this fleeting life also fleeting?”
This life is not fleeting. Life is eternal. The outer life may be fleeting; the inner life is eternal. The body’s life may be fleeting; the soul’s life is eternal. You were a child, now you are young, tomorrow you will grow old—but there is something within you that was never a child, never became young, and will never grow old. That is who you are. That is your real life. In satsang you are reminded of that, again and again. From the remembrance of that, joy begins to well up; from that remembrance, fragrance begins to spread.
But greed is very faint-hearted.
I would gladly sacrifice a thousand lives for the life of the river;
I cannot bear to die the death of the shore.
Yet the frightened and the greedy want only the death of the shore; they shrink from entering the storm. And joy is a storm. Your ordinary life has become still, safe. There is house, door, family—everything is secure. The life toward which I am leading you is a life of leaving the bank; a life of plunging into the midstream.
I would gladly sacrifice a thousand lives for the life of the river;
I cannot bear to die the death of the shore.
Let those come with me who do not wish to die on the shore; those who wish to enter the swell, who wish to enter the river’s storm, who wish to enter life’s challenges; who are ready to move into insecurity; who want to search the Unknown—only they should come with me. This is a dangerous path.
Life is not obtained for free; its price must be paid with dangers. And those who come with me, let them not keep looking back.
Do not, through the course of life, keep turning to look at your footprints;
Cultivate the stately gait of the moon and the stars.
Have you seen the gait of the moon and the constellations? Such a gait is needed.
Do not keep turning back to look at the footprints
left behind. What is there to see in the marks your feet have left! Keep your eyes ahead, and walk blessed by the moon and stars.
This world belongs to those who are able to join themselves to the infinite life. And the infinite life is not some other life—this very life, rightly seen. The transient is the eternal—if rightly seen. And the eternal appears transient—if not rightly seen. Grasp the shadow and it is transient; grasp the source and it is eternal. Granted the transient—come, let the taste of this transient joy descend into your throat. Have trust in this transient joy; through it the door will open.
Do you not see? We open even the largest gate of a fort with a tiny key; and the hole into which the key enters is so small—yet the vast door opens! In the beginning, joy comes drop by drop; but drops alone make the ocean. There is no difference between drop and ocean—only of quantity. Keep trust.
Autumn’s plunder may have ruined the garden,
Yet the certainty of spring’s arrival has not diminished.
Many times autumn comes, but for that we do not lose our trust in spring. Many times the garden is laid waste; for that we do not stop building nests.
Keep trust! The eternal is hidden here somewhere—seek the key! Where that key is found—that very thing is called satsang. And one who has recognized even a little of the eternal—do not think he runs away from the transient. Where will you go, running away? Only his way of seeing the transient changes. It all happens here—in this very life, with these very people, in these very trees, these very mountains, these very moon and stars. It all happens here. From the outside, nothing seems different; but within, a revolution has happened. Then he keeps playing with these very transient waves, but now he knows the waves are nothing in themselves—they are limbs of the vast ocean. Do you see:
With what delight, in the garden, the morning breeze
teases bud and blossom—
Yet her pure chastity is not lost.
Have you seen the morning breeze? With what delight she teases flowers and leaves! What frolic! But for that her purity is not destroyed.
Once a person experiences the Ultimate even once, then everything goes on just so. Otherwise, what meaning would there be to Krishna’s rasa? What meaning to the music of Krishna’s flute? If someone like you were there among the gopis and gopas, you would ask: All right—but the note is, after all, the sound of a flute, transient. What are you playing? What is there in dance? It is transient. What is there in this embrace of yours? It is transient. No—if you recognize, it does not remain transient. With recognition, everything becomes eternal. Then life is an incomparable performance, a divine play.
My heart remembers the soul-searing scenes;
I remember the springs of ruined gardens.
When a song stirs upon my lips,
I remember the broken strings of the heart.
Only those drown in the fury of the waves, O companion,
Who, in the storm, keep thinking of the shores.
They, O “Sahira,” never find their destination,
Who, in the storm, keep thinking of supports.
Abandon security! Abandon supports! Leave the banks!
Only those drown in the fury of the waves, O companion—
Those who, in the storm, keep thinking of the shores.
In a storm, what remembrance of shores! Struggle with the storm, and the shores fall away. And until midstream itself becomes shore, know you have not yet understood the true meaning of life, its intent. Until drowning and crossing over become one, know you have not yet recognized the Divine.
They, O “Sahira,” never find their destination—
Those who, in the storm, keep thinking of supports.

Where will you learn total absorption? How will you learn it? What else is sannyas?
A method, a device for learning absorption. A way, a style of becoming absorbed—call it whatever you like.
What is sannyas—what I call sannyas?
An arrangement to become absorbed with me.
On your part it is a declaration that now you are willing to walk with me wherever I take you—into a storm if it’s a storm, into midstream if it’s midstream. If I drown you, you are willing to drown with me.
What else does sannyas mean?
It is taking a risk—pure risk. Because who knows where I will take you! You have no idea which direction I am leading you. You don’t know where this boat will touch shore. You don’t know whether I will sink it in the middle or land it on the other bank. You came to me, you placed your hand in my hand, and a trust was born within you: I will go. It is like taking a risk. Even if I drown, it is a risk I choose.

Sannyas means only this much: you have laid down your arms; you will no longer make any arrangements to protect yourself against me.
Sannyas has the same meaning as when you go to a hospital, lie down on the operating table, and leave yourself in the surgeon’s hands—now whatever happens, happens, because who knows what will happen? The surgeon might be drunk, might have had too much to drink, might cut and trim any which way. He might have quarreled with his wife and be angry; instead of two inches, he might cut four.

I have heard of a surgeon performing an operation. He removed the appendix—he was a master craftsman. His students, his disciples, his friends stood around watching. His skill was renowned in the world—the way he did it. Their breath stopped—the dexterity, the artistry with which he removed the appendix! When it was out, their hands burst into applause. The surgeon got so excited that, in his enthusiasm, he also removed the tonsils of the man lying on the table—just out of zeal! As you sometimes say when a musician is singing, “Once more!”—you clap, and he repeats it.

Who knows! But when you lie down in the surgeon’s hands, you let everything go. And here, this is an even greater surgery. Here it is not just about cutting the body; here it is about cutting the mind. Only if the mind is cut will you gain anything. Here it is a question of cutting away your ego.

You say: “Every act done with total absorption is sadhana.”
Certainly. But do you know what total absorption means? If you are engaged in the search for truth, to be total will mean becoming one with a true master. If you are sitting here to listen, totality will mean that no argument and no dispute remain between you and me; that there is acceptance between us; that the “no” drops and the feeling of “yes” arises. That is sannyas.

Sannyas is a revolution. That is why you see—red is the color of revolution, the color of sannyas! It is an inner revolution.
Crimson buds, crimson leaves, crimson flowers,
Crimson storm, crimson gale, crimson dust,
And in every crimson, the crimson of wine—
Revolution, revolution, revolution!

It is a revolution. It is the crimson of wine. This red is a message that I am ready to be effaced; I am ready to be new; that I am ready to carry my cross upon my shoulders; that if difficulties come, if hardships arise, still I am eager to undertake this journey; whatever price has to be paid, I am ready.
The feeling for sannyas must have arisen within you; that is why the question has come. Tumul Pandey has asked! Surely somewhere within a feeling must be rising, a thirst awakening; otherwise how would the question take shape? Now if you are afraid, if you run, if you get flustered—there are a thousand reasons to fear, to flee, to be nervous—then you will repent. A moment came, and you missed it. Then one day you will say, with eyes filled with tears:
Carrying within my heart a whole world of sorrow’s fire, I go;
Alas, from your tavern I depart unquenched.
Yet as I leave, I do make one pledge:
I swear by my resolve to risk all.
I shall return to your beautiful assembly—
I shall return, and in another manner I shall return.

Ah, how the circles of time have spun me about!
The bitterness of afflictions has opened my eyes.
The nature of the heart has turned enemy to song;
Life is becoming a lightning-flash, a flame.
From head to foot I shall return as a blood-red fire—
In crimson streams of color and scent, I shall return as fire.

You can go, but you will go empty-handed. Either go with your hands full—or at least carry this thirst with you, that “Yet as I leave, I make one pledge… I make a promise”:

I swear by my resolve to risk all.
I shall return to your beautiful assembly—
I shall return, and in another manner I shall return.

You will have to come.

I have understood your feeling, your longing—and your fear as well. It is everyone’s fear; it is not only yours. Those who have taken sannyas here once had the same fear: What will people say? Will they laugh, think me mad? How will I manage? If I wear ochre, how will my shop run? If I go to the office in ochre, how will I work? What will father say, mother, wife? What will sons and daughters say? Relations, society—a thousand concerns, a thousand anxieties.

But a moment comes in a human life when all such considerations lose their value; when it becomes clear they will go on just the same—and one day death will arrive.

And you see, when a corpse is carried, they cover it with a red cloth. But by then it is too late. What meaning is there in draping it red now? And when the dead are carried, people chant, “Ram-naam satya.” Now it is far too late; there is no one left to hear. I put the ochre on you while you are alive; I place you on the bier now; I have “Ram-naam satya” proclaimed now.

Sannyas means: to die while living. Sannyas means: to recognize that the life lived so far has been vain—and to begin the search for a new life.

And what can be today, do not leave for tomorrow. What can happen now, do not postpone. If it cannot be, that is another matter—do not force sannyas. I am not saying take sannyas by pressure. Such a sannyas would be worth two pennies. If the feeling arises naturally, then do not bother about fear. If the feeling arises, flow with it.

Do not manufacture the feeling. If it does not arise, do not take sannyas just because others have. Otherwise it will be false, an act, a hypocrisy. But if the feeling is rising within you, then even if the world refuses, do not worry.

Kindle the majesty of fire, of lightning, of clouds;
Awaken such a youthfulness that even the Eternal trembles.
Hidden in your gait lies the secret of earthquakes—
At every step, give birth to a revolution.
Delicate indeed, O friend, is the kiss of the sword;
This alone is the life of the world—bring to it a living sheen.
Your youth is a trust held for the whole world—
In the thorny waste of the world, bring forth roses.
Do not wait for the advent of revolution;
If you can, create the revolution now.

Do not wait for revolution to come. Revolution never arrives; one has to enter it. And the revolution I speak of is not social or political. It is the revolution of the person, the revolution of the soul.

The secret is to live with totality. But where will you learn totality? To learn it, you must join with one who has become total. If someone’s veena has begun to sing, place your silent veena beside it. Simply by nearness, the strings of the silent veena begin to quiver to the struck notes of the singing one. If a lamp is lit, place your unlit lamp near it; a moment of such closeness will come when a tongue of flame leaps from the lit lamp and catches the unlit wick.

Nothing of mine is lost; you gain much. The burning lamp still burns. Even if a thousand lamps are lit from it, do not think its light is diminished. This is the wonder of spiritual experience: give, squander—yet it is neither spent nor divided; it only grows, nothing is consumed.

Do you remember the word of the Upanishad? The Ishavasya begins with it: from the Whole, even if the whole is taken, the Whole still remains. Take from me whatever you wish to take—do not hesitate at all. This much is the meaning of sannyas. But only those who come close can take. To come close—that is sannyas.

This is satsang. What I want to show you cannot be seen with open eyes; to see it, the eyes must be closed. What I want to show you is invisible—at least to these two outer eyes. But it is not invisible to the inner eyes.

For the first time, Dharmasharan Das, you have tasted satsang. Now it will keep growing. Now abide in it. Call it forth as much as you can. And soon you will realize that for this there is no need to come and sit close to me. Whenever you remember me—even from far away, a thousand miles away—it depends on your remembrance. If your remembrance becomes total and your eyes truly close, you will find the same again; you will find it everywhere.

Your real initiation has now happened. There was a sannyas you took earlier—that was only the beginning. Now the real sannyas has occurred. Now you are connected with me from within.

Auspicious has happened. Now water it. Do not let this plant wither.

Anand Tirth! You are blessed that so soon you have seen this. That is what I am! What appeared to you like a shadow of light—that is what I am! This body is its shadow. This body is not the original; the original is that. That light which you saw is the original. This body is the shadow that follows behind it.

But we are so bound to the body that we have taken the body to be the original. Therefore, when for the first time the original is seen, it seems like a shadow. And what you have seen within me, soon you will begin to see within everyone. It has nothing to do with the realized and the unrealized.

This aura is with everyone—only the eyes to see are needed! This aura is not only with human beings; animals and birds have it, and trees as well. This aura is our soul.

What has happened to you—now remember it again and again. And not only with me; sometimes, walking along the road, you will experience it around a stranger too. Slowly, slowly, the experience will spread. The Divine is present in everyone—just as much as in Buddha, as in Krishna, as in Christ. That people may not know it is another matter. The treasure is within regardless. That they may have forgotten is another matter. From that treasure this light goes on arising.

But for the first seeing, it generally becomes easier if you have a very deep bond of love and reverence with someone. Otherwise it is difficult to see. The first glimpse comes in the master; then, slowly, it begins to be seen in all.

Good, Anand Tirth! And when it happens for the first time, doubt also arises—suspicion: am I being deluded? The mind raises a thousand questions. And when it happens for the first time, this also happens: how did I miss it till now? And at that thought everyone weeps. Because that which was available with such ease—we were missing even that. Who could be as unfortunate as we!

But don’t worry: whenever one returns home, that is soon enough. For there are countless who, out of stubbornness, will not return for an eternity. Whenever it happens, it is already early. Drop the worry of regret. Now that it has happened, be grateful! Feel blessed! Be filled with awe! Because if you are filled with awe, more and more will happen.

No, Samadhi! It is not unconsciousness. Now for the first time you have begun to listen to me as one should. What I am saying is only a pretext—to keep you engaged, to keep you sitting here. It is with what I am that you have to connect. What is said in the words is nothing; what flows between the words is everything. The gap between two words—when sometimes I fall silent for a moment—then you will hear; only then is it heard.

Forget what I say; don’t bother about that. Don’t forget what I am.

It is not stupor. It is like stupor, but it is not stupor. It will feel like stupor. It is ecstasy, self-absorption. But self-absorption, too, seems like faintness; an intoxication descends.

“The goblet slips, O saqi, the hands begin to tremble;
Seeing your eyes, I fall into intoxication.”

Let the intoxication grow. Let the drunkards multiply—this is precisely my effort. In this tavern let as many as possible drink and become beside themselves—that is the device. You will lose awareness of yourself, and only then will the awareness of the Divine arise.

“Whenever you remember Him, then all other remembrance departs;
Eye meets Eye, and the eyelids do not meet.”

Matiram’s famous saying: “Whenever you bring Him to mind... then all other memory vanishes.” A state of ecstasy spreads, an intoxication descends. “Eye meets Eye”—and then your eyes lock with His eyes. “Eye meets Eye, the eyelids do not meet.” Then the eyes no longer close. Sleep no longer comes. The eyes become still, unblinking.

Something like this must be happening. And then it becomes very difficult. Another famous saying of Matiram:

“Who dwells in whom—such a thing cannot be said;
The beloved’s eyes are in the maiden’s, the maiden’s in the beloved’s.”

Who abides in whom, who has merged into whom—it becomes impossible to say! Have the beloved’s eyes entered the lover’s, or has the lover entered the beloved’s eyes? It is impossible to decide.

“Who dwells in whom—this cannot be said;
The beloved’s eyes in the maiden’s, the maiden’s in the beloved’s.”

Then, slowly, it even becomes difficult to decide who is the lover and who the beloved. Then both drown—One remains. It is toward that One that we have to move.

Words will also be lost. My form, color, shape will also be lost. Your words will be lost; your form, color, shape too will be lost. And then the Formless will surround you from all sides—outside the same, inside the same!

This indeed is the very purpose of satsang—keep sitting, keep listening; keep sitting, keep listening. Who knows when the blow might land!
“Sahib ehi vidhi na milai.”
Others heard too; it was Guna who was struck. Even a blow has its right time. Sometimes the mind is in that ripened state when the strike happens. Then it doesn’t matter what delivers the blow. I had repeated this line many times—“Sahib ehi vidhi na milai” (The Lord is not found by this method)—I’m repeating it even now. There is nothing in the words themselves. Guna’s consciousness, in that moment, must have been caught in my current, linked with me. For a moment the separation broke. What I was saying at that moment is not the point. Whatever I might have said then would have delivered the blow.

You have heard the stories of Zen masters. A disciple is meditating; the master simply comes near and claps loudly. A clap is not even a word. And yet a startle, and a vast silence descends. The disciple opens his eyes; the old is gone, the new is born. Afterwards the disciple says, “That clap you gave—ah, that clap was nectar!” But the clap was only a clap. The moment was nectar. In that moment, anything would have done.

Zen masters even strike their disciples on the head with a stick. And sometimes samadhi has ripened from a blow of the stick. From where samadhi will ripen—who can say? When the wires will connect—who can say? Therefore, one must wait.

Ik nigah kar ke usne mol liya
Bik gaye—ah! hum bhi kya saste!

With a single glance she bought me;
Alas! how cheaply I was sold!

Sometimes a single glance—just a slight glance—and everything is sold, everything is staked! But when? That cannot be predicted. Hence it is said: Sit by the master, rise by the master; let this current flow, let satsang continue. When it will happen, in what auspicious hour—no one knows. No prediction can be made. Even astrologers can say nothing about it. There is only one thing in this world that lies outside astrology. Why outside astrology? Because there is only one thing in this world that lies outside the net of karma. There is only one thing—samadhi—about which no announcement can be made. For samadhi does not belong to this world; it comes from the other. Here we are only receivers.

“The line ‘Sahib ehi vidhi na milai’ so struck me today that I was all in a whirl.”
I am striking you every day—so that you whirl, so that your heartbeat quickens, so that sometimes your heartbeat stops, so that sometimes the breath goes in and doesn’t return, or goes out and doesn’t come back. So that an interval appears, the chain breaks, the sequence is uprooted. So that you are cut off from the past and are made new.

“And I bathed in a stream of tears.”
In tears lies the true Ganga. Whoever learns to bathe in tears has found the Ganga. He knows the secret of purification. Tears are a miracle. If tears flow rightly, they wash away the dust of many lifetimes from the eyes, and the darkness and torpor of many lifetimes from the heart. Whoever has learned to weep has learned to pray. Unfortunate are those who do not know how to weep and whose prayer is mere words.

“My fear washed away.”
Ji khol kar kuch aaj to rone de hamnashin
Muddat hui hai dard ka darmaan kiye hue

Open your heart, friend, let me weep a little today—
It’s been ages since I gave my pain its remedy.

For how many births have you been holding back your tears! For how long have you hidden your pain! You didn’t say it, didn’t tell it. And whom to tell? And even if you told, who would understand? Who is there to understand? If you wept, people would laugh. If you wept, they would pity you. So people have held back their pain, held back their tears.

Ji khol kar kuch aaj to rone de hamnashin
Muddat hui hai dard ka darmaan kiye hue

Then the stream must have burst, the dam must have given way.

“My fear washed away. I bathed in tears. Now there is no anxiety, no fear.”
This is the very taste of punya. Only yesterday we were speaking of Dhani Dharmdas—the taste of punya! This is the experience of purity, the experience of blessedness. In purity where is fear, where is anger, where is greed? All of it flows away. But take heed: it returns again and again.

Therefore don’t stop with what has happened. It returns again and again. Those nets are so ancient that for a moment the sky opens, and then clouds gather again—dense! Darkness returns. The sun hides. Then you no longer trust whether the sun had truly appeared, or you only imagined it. For our acquaintance with clouds is very old, and the sun is seen only for fleeting moments.

So Guna, don’t forget! What happened was true. Clouds will gather again, fear will return, anxiety will return, doubts will rise. All the old ailments will stand up again—but remember: what happened was true. I bear witness that what happened was true. And that truth is to be sought again and again. The clouds must be parted again and again.

And now you will understand the last part of your question: “Lord, I have boarded your boat. Take care of me!”
From far away a note of fear has begun to sound—“take care.” From somewhere fear has lifted its head. It hasn’t gone completely; it’s standing at the door. It says, “Guna! Don’t be so fearless. I haven’t left yet; I am still here, close by; I will return. I cannot break this friendship so quickly. Our bond is old, of birth upon birth. These rounds are very ancient.”

“Lord, I have boarded your boat. Take care of me!”
The feeling of “take care”—fear has crept in! Otherwise what is there to take care of? What is there to steady? “I might fall”—fear has come. The sun has gone, the clouds have returned. The tears had for a moment cleansed the eyes; dust and debris have returned.

This will happen again and again. Before the eyes open forever and the dust is washed away forever, it will happen many times.

Before samadhi, many glimpses of samadhi come. This was a glimpse of samadhi—beautiful. Hard to say what sort—but there is no need to say. When something happens within you, those who are linked to me—I get the news. What is told to you gets told to me as well.

Kagad par likhat na banat, kahat sandesh lajat.
Kahihai sab tero hio, mere hiy ki baat.

It cannot be written on paper; the message blushes to be spoken.
It tells everything of your heart—the talk of my heart.

There is really nothing to be said. But when something happens in your heart, it happens in my heart too. Such is the bond of guru and disciple. With those with whom I do not have that bond, what happens within them I will not know—the wires are not connected. If you have the courage, connect the wires; otherwise there will be much regret later.

Uthen phir fasl-e-gul mein arzuon ko jawan kar den
Chalen phir bulbulon ko aashna-e-gulistan kar den

Let us rise again in the season of flowers and make our longings young;
Let us once more make the nightingales at home in the rose garden.

Plant this garden! Let these flowers bloom! A little courage is needed.
And in any case life is passing—it will go—and death will snatch everything; before that, stake it all.

Chashm-e-tar! dekh gham-e-dil na numayan ho jaye
Ishq ke samne aur husn pasheman ho jaye
Jaanta hoon main tamanna ko gunah-e-ulfat
Ishq woh hai jo nihaan reh ke numayan ho jaye

O tear-dimmed eyes, see that the heart’s grief does not become exposed;
Before Love, even Beauty grows abashed.
I know desire to be the sin of affection;
Love is that which, remaining hidden, becomes manifest.

Love slips away silently.
Love is that which, remaining hidden, becomes manifest—
Which neither speaks nor says, but bows quietly and dissolves.

Apni majboori-e-ulfat ka fasana keh kar
Dar raha hoon ki kahin woh na pasheman ho jaye
Daagh-e-ulfat ki tajalli jo numayan ho jaye
Shola-e-Toor bhi ik baar pasheman ho jaye

By telling the tale of love’s compulsion,
I fear lest she become remorseful.
If the radiance of love’s scar were to be unveiled,
Even Sinai’s flame would once feel ashamed.

Zabt-e-gham se nahin yaara-e-khamoshi mujhko
Tum jo kuch poochho to mushkil meri asan ho jaye

Restraint of sorrow does not grant me the friend-of-silence;
If you ask me anything, my difficulty becomes easy.

A disciple cannot even ask. If he asks, he knows that what needed to be asked has already slipped—the word cannot hold it. But whether the disciple asks or not, the master answers. Every day I answer many of your unasked questions. Those who are linked to me—I get their news; I come to know their need.

Zabt-e-gham se nahin yaara-e-khamoshi mujhko
Tum jo kuch poochho to mushkil meri asan ho jaye
Kaash yoon barq gire khirman-e-dil par makhfi
Zarra-zarra meri hasti ka farozan ho jaye

Restraint of grief gives me no power for silence—
If you ask, my difficulty becomes easy.
Would that a lightning-strike fall, secretly, on the threshing floor of the heart—
May every particle of my being become luminous.

In being a disciple this very yearning is hidden—the offering of love, and this aspiration: that a lightning strike fall upon me such that every particle becomes radiant.

A small blow has come to Guna. Now wait for this blow, pray for this blow, yearn for this blow. It will land again and again. Once it has landed, recognition is born. With recognition, it begins to land again and again.

Have you ever noticed? One day you hurt your foot, and all day long the same spot keeps getting hit—you’ve noticed this? The bumps were always happening, but you didn’t feel them. Now you feel them. The foot is hurt; you pass by a chair and its leg hits the same spot; then the hurt is felt again. The door strikes. A child comes and stands right on that foot. All day the hurt is struck. It was always being struck, but once it’s wounded, a sore is made. With the wound, that place grows sensitive. Now even a slight touch feels like a blow. Gradually, sensitivity deepens.

Slowly, slowly the disciple becomes nothing but sensitivity. That is sannyas.

That is all for today.