Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #10

And where else should they go? There is no other place.
It is society and family that have distorted you; you must be free of them. Whether someone literally leaves society, or leaves it mentally, one way or the other one has to be free of society. The forms may differ.
Charandas left the world; Kabir remained in the world. Do not think Kabir did not renounce. Kabir too renounced—he renounced while living in the world.
The world has to be left. One must be free of the limits of the world. If you can be free from within—be so; nothing is more auspicious. But if you find that inner freedom alone is not possible, then outer freedom will also be needed; if that seems necessary, then that too is necessary. But free you must be.
These layers of darkness on your mind have been laid by society. When you were born, you did not come with this darkness. When you were born, you were dancing with the Divine. These walls that have been raised—society raised them, family raised them, conditioning raised them.
When you came, you did not come as a Hindu. You did not come as a Muslim. You did not come as a Jain. When you came, you brought no ideas; you had no beliefs. You did not even know whether God is or is not. You were neither theist nor atheist. When you came, you were a blank sheet. You have to become a blank sheet again. Without becoming blank you will not find the Divine. Becoming blank is the way to find God. That is why Kabir speaks so much of shunya, the void: “Our dwelling is in the void.”
You have to build your house in emptiness. And that emptiness has been stuffed by society, the state, politicians, religious leaders, pundits, priests, education. Your blank heart has been scribbled over. You must wash all this off and make it clean. Only when you are free of it will you know who you are. Otherwise you will not recognize yourself at all. A thousand voices inside you will go on telling you you are this and you are that—and your original voice will be lost in that noise and clamor; it will not be heard.
So you ask, “Why do saints, in search of God, leave family and society and go to the forest?”
Where else should they go?
There are only two ways: either remain here, but even then you will have to renounce. You will have to be like a lotus in water.
Live in society, but don’t take it too seriously; take it as a play. As when a man plays chess, he treats wooden toys as king and queen. While he plays, he treats them as king and queen. Play like that; be a player. Then there is no need to go anywhere. Because you have found a way to be free right here.
Live in society, but live within yourself. Whenever there is a chance, slip inside quickly. The real forest is there. The outer forest can only give a little support in finding the real inner forest.
What does “forest” mean? Natural, spontaneous, made by God; as it is. No mark of human hands.
So whether you go to the outer forest or to the inner forest—one way or another, you will have to go to the forest. And if you ask me, I will say: go to the inner forest. For it has often happened that people went and sat in the outer forest, but could not enter the inner one. They went outwardly to the forest, and there they kept remembering society—family, loved ones, wife, husband, children, the shop. They kept remembering the same things. So you went—and went nowhere.
Just as people can be free while living in the world, so too one can remain unfree while living in the forest. Just as someone standing in the marketplace crowd can, if he wishes, be utterly alone, so in the forest’s solitude someone can, if he wishes, remain surrounded by the whole crowd of the world. Because the crowd is mental.
But if you feel the outer forest will support the inner forest, then there is no harm. The Divine has to be sought.
But remember: those who sought in the forest also return one day. They do not remain stuck in the forest. Perhaps it was useful for training. Mahavira went to the forest, Buddha went to the forest, but they returned to society. What they had found, they came here to share. Whether you find it while living here or somewhere else, the sharing will be here.
The Jain scriptures discuss much about Mahavira’s going to the forest. But they do not discuss at all why Mahavira returned. If everything was in the forest, he could have stayed there!
No, that was only an experiment—only a device to be free of society. He moved away so that in every way he could settle into himself. When he was settled, when there was no more fear; when it was certain that nothing in the world could shake him; that even if wealth lay before him, greed would not arise within; that even if someone abused him, no sense of insult would arise; that even if the most beautiful person passed by, no wave of lust would arise—when this was certain, then what fear remained? He returned.
Consider for yourself. If you can do it while living here, nothing is better. Why go back and forth needlessly? If you cannot, then the second option. Then even if for some days you must withdraw into solitude, withdraw. But take care that the withdrawal is only for some days. Do not let it become a habit. Do not let it happen that today you are dependent on society and tomorrow you become dependent on the forest. Wherever there is habit, there is bondage. Wherever there is bondage, there is the world.
It often happens that people get bound even by bad habits—and also by “good” habits. One man smokes; we say it is a bad habit. Another rolls his rosary like a cigarette; if he doesn’t, he gets cravings. He runs the rosary and feels no special joy; the smoker too feels no special joy, but if he doesn’t smoke he becomes restless. The rosary-turner, if he doesn’t roll it, becomes restless.
Although rosary and cigarette are very different things, the rosary is quite harmless—it will do you no physical harm. Chant as much as you like; you won’t get tuberculosis or cancer. No rosary can cause such trouble. But as far as the deeper point is concerned, both have become habits. And when they are habits, both are bondages.
One who wants to be free must not be bound by any habit. Do not let it happen that you run away from the world and then get shackled in the forest. Then you cannot return. Then you fall in love with the valleys, the mountains, the trees, the birds and animals—and a family has formed there too.
It is not necessary that “family” be made up of people only. You can fall in love with a dog, and then that becomes your family. It can also happen that you become enamored of the silence of the forest; wherever there is infatuation, there is the world.
What does it mean to be free of the world? It means to be free of the mind. Mind means the sum of attachment, greed, lust, anger, and the like.
You are sitting in the forest; all is silent; you feel very pleased. Will that pleasure remain in the marketplace as well? If it can remain, only then have you attained. If it is lost when you go to the market, then you never attained it. What kind of attainment is this? It was dependence on the forest. That peace and silence belonged to the forest; you mistakenly took it to be yours. What is truly yours will remain with you—wherever you are.
Therefore my first suggestion is: don’t go anywhere. Otherwise it will only be a change of habit. Experiment here first. And it is possible here.
You don’t have to leave the wife; you have to drop the wifely image toward the wife. Drop the mine-and-thine. Who belongs to whom? It is a companionship of a few days. We are all strangers here. Travelers who met on the road, walking together for a while. But do not weave attachment from this. Do not think, “I cannot live without this wife; she cannot live without me.” Do not seize this wife as possession. And do not allow this wife to seize you as possession. Do not become each other’s slaves. Remain free. Keep your freedom intact. Honor the other’s freedom. Then the wife is bid farewell—and you can still live with your wife; then there is no hindrance.
Sit in your shop. Take this shop as a commission from God. He sent you; that must be His will. If this is what He asks you to do, then do it. But do it without becoming the owner. He alone is the owner. The day He removes you from the shop, you will step away. The day He declares the shop bankrupt, you will stand and laugh: “So the shop is bankrupt!”
Epictetus was a great saint in Greece. He was a slave—a slave of an emperor. In those days there were slaves. The emperor heard that he was a realized fakir, and that he said, “I am not the body.” The emperor said, “It is necessary to test him.” He summoned him and ordered two wrestlers to twist his leg.
As they twisted his leg, the fakir said, as if it had nothing to do with him, “Look, you are twisting it, but it will break.” As if someone were twisting some object and someone else says, “Brother, it will break; don’t twist too much.” He said, “Twist it if you like; but I warn you, you’ll regret it; it will break. This leg will break if you twist it so far.”
But the emperor said, “Twist on.” When the leg was about to break, beginning to crack, he said, “Even now, understand. A little further and it will go.”
Yet he still did not say, “Don’t break my leg!” He did not shout, “You will cripple me!” When they were about to break it, he said to the emperor, “Be careful—your slave will become lame. Understand. Nothing of mine is harmed; the loss is yours. Don’t blame me later.”
But the emperor wanted to take the test to the end. He had the leg broken. When the leg broke, the fakir laughed. He said, “I told you beforehand. Now bear the consequences.” Not for a single moment did identification arise. He did not say, “My leg!” This is the formula for being free while living in the world.
If there is hunger, it is His. If there is a body, it is His. Everything is His. Live in this attitude of offering, and then there is no need to go anywhere.
This too is a dense forest. These people all around are like trees. This crowd, this market—this too is a very dense forest. What more forest do you need! But if you find it is not possible, that you are not so capable, not so strong; if you understand and find that you are weak, that you cannot remain awake in so much entanglement, that you need a little relief from worry—then withdraw to the forest for some days. There is no harm.
A sensible person should, if possible, move away for a month or two in a year, or even fifteen days. Every few years, make an opportunity, take four to six months’ leave, and withdraw to the forest. But do not make a habit of the forest. Do not reach the forest and then say, “Now I cannot return.” Do not say, “There is great peace here and great disturbance there.”
Peace is neither here nor there. Peace is within. Do not become a slave of the forest. Then go, by all means, and enjoy it.
You ask: “Why do saints withdraw?”
What else should they do?
Society has distorted them; moving a little away from society’s shadow can be useful.
I am not giving it any special value. I am not saying you performed some great miracle by going to the forest. If you have understood me rightly, I am saying that you are not a number-one wise man; you are number two—second grade. Number one I call Janaka, who, sitting on the throne, became free of the throne. The Buddha I call number two; first he had to leave the throne in the physical sense, and then awakening arose. Janaka attained where he was. The understanding dawned right there. Where to go? Where to come? Staying where he was, he lit the lamp.
But I am not saying to you: forcibly try to be number one. If you cannot, there is no problem. Freedom is needed; the Divine has to be realized—by any means.
Therefore, a forest-dweller does not command special reverence in my mind. But this does not mean I am saying you must remain in the world, even if you miss the Divine—don’t go to the forest. That is not my meaning. If there is no other way, then do it.
Going to the forest is like surgery. First the doctor gives medicine. If you are cured by medicine, good. If you are not cured by medicine, then hands and feet have to be cut—surgery is needed. In the same way, if it can be done here, that is best. If it cannot happen here, then surgery—then go to the forest.

It would be convenient for one kind of seeker—the one to whom that method fits. But that would be a small minority. This door is for everyone. Here there are pathways for people of different tendencies, different styles, different hues.

This is exactly where the past went wrong. Out of this very concern for convenience, so many religions arose in the world—born out of the idea of convenience.

So where the path was devotion, there was no talk of knowledge. Where the path was knowledge, there was no talk of devotion. Not only no talk: the follower of knowledge would actively refute devotion—because to seat knowledge firmly in the heart, that refutation becomes useful. And the devotee would refute knowledge.

Thus the scriptures became filled with refutations. And each method serves only a few. That is why no religion became truly universal, truly all-embracing. There simply wasn’t room in them for everyone.

Take Jainism, for example. It is a religion of purushartha—of effort, will, assertion—so it suits those who relish strong effort, whose style of being is “masculine,” a bit aggressive. It is a path of resolve. But it does not suit those whose style is “feminine,” whose way is surrender, whose road is love, in whose hearts great feelings arise.

So if a devotee is born in a Jain home—unfortunate fellow. He will not find a path there. Nor will he be allowed to go elsewhere easily. From childhood he will hear, “Devotion is wrong.” From childhood he will hear, “Don’t even talk about devotees; the devotees’ own God, Krishna, is in hell!” The Jains have consigned him to hell. From their standpoint, Krishna’s peacock feather, yellow silks, flute in hand, ornaments—this is all attachment, not the way of the dispassionate. Mahavira stands naked: that, they say, is the way to liberation.

Place Krishna and Mahavira side by side, and in some minds a reverence will arise for Mahavira: “This is renunciation. He left everything. Stood naked. Abandoned home, wealth, possessions. This is renunciation.”

But in some minds the enchanting form of Krishna will take root. Someone will become intoxicated seeing those loving eyes. Someone will sway to the music of that flute. The anklets tied to Krishna’s feet will begin to ring in someone’s heart. Someone will be so blissfully drunk as if intoxicated without drinking. Mahavira will seem dry and stark to him. He will think, “If only people like Mahavira go to liberation, then I don’t want liberation. Those gentlemen standing here and there—naked—such a liberation, I want no part of it. What will we do with so barren a liberation—eat it, drink it, wear it? You people keep it for yourselves.”

Where Krishna is, there he will go. A devotee will say, “If he is in hell, then we will go to hell.” For with this rain of music, this celebration, this fountain of joy, this song—hell with Krishna will seem sweet to someone. And to someone else, even sitting in heaven with Mahavira will feel like, “Where have I gotten stuck? How do I free myself from this gentleman now? How do I escape this liberation!”

Think about it a little. Neither is wrong. It is a question of one’s own tendency, one’s own leaning, one’s own individuality.

The one who thinks through intellect will be drawn to Mahavira. The one who feels through the heart will be drawn to Krishna. But there is heart as well as intellect—and in some the heart prevails, in some the intellect.

I understand what you are saying, the question you are asking. You are saying that when I speak on Ashtavakra, I should stay with Ashtavakra alone.

Just the day before yesterday someone said to me, “We thought everything was contained in the Mahageeta. Now when we hear you speak on the saints, we feel very restless. What should we do now? We thought that in speaking on Ashtavakra you had said it all—everything was complete. We would maintain the witness.”

But that is a devotee speaking, and witnessing is not the devotee’s thing. The devotee says: absorption, immersion. Witnessing means: stand at a distance and watch. The devotee says: dive in! How will you stand at a distance and look? Will you look at God from afar? What greater sacrilege could there be? Dive into God; don’t protect yourself, dissolve.

So I understand your difficulty. I understand the context of your question too. You do get into difficulty.

Sometimes I speak on the devotee, sometimes on the knower. Sometimes I speak of meditators, sometimes of lovers. And within these too there are many, many forms. Meditation has many methods. So too devotion has many ways. I speak of all the ways.

You say, “If only one kind of tree stood in this garden, it would be more convenient.” I say to you, “In this garden, there are all kinds of trees. Sit under the one that delights you. But the others are here for others as well. The fragrance that suits you, bathe in it. For some the jasmine fragrance is sweet; for some, tuberose. Lose yourself in what makes you blissful. There are even those who find less juice in flowers and more in the greenness of leaves—so there are such plants here too, with the splendor of leaves alone. Lose yourself in them.

Some relish small shrubs. Some are drawn to those trees that converse with the clouds in the sky, that shake hands with the moon and stars. As each one’s mood, as each one’s search.”

Here there is a door for everyone. This is the first time there is a truly universal temple.

Your difficulty is arising from your side. Dive into what draws you. But your difficulty is not because of me. Your difficulty is that you fall into greed. You see you are enjoying Ashtavakra. Then you think, “Now Kabir has come too; let me taste a little of him as well. Let me try a little of that.” You fall into greed.

If Ashtavakra gives you joy, then forget Kabir. What have you to do with Kabir! Let that weaver say whatever he says. Don’t get into it. And whatever I may say… because I am not speaking only to you. I am speaking to others too—for whom that weaver will become the very door. There are some whose hearts will fill with ecstasy only through Kabir. In some hearts only Kabir’s tanpura will sound. They will not take to Ashtavakra. He will seem very bland. Where is Kabir’s surge, where his song, where his edge, where his revolution!

Ashtavakra’s words will seem hollow-hollow; alright; philosophical; rhetoric. When Kabir’s stick falls on your head, you’ll know—here stands a man! Someone will resonate with Kabir.

Whoever resonates with Kabir, let him forget worrying about Ashtavakra.

And understand: when I speak on someone, I forget the rest. Then all my attention, my whole life-energy, is bound to that one.

When I am speaking on Kabir, Kabir alone is everything for me. In that period, if you name someone else—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ—I push them out at once. At that time, for me there is no one but Kabir.

Yes, when I speak on Buddha, then Kabir will find no place at all. However much he knocks, the door will not open for him. He will say, “You had once invited me so lovingly; now I want to come on my own.” Still he will be told, “Wait; let your time come.”

I understand your difficulty. This door is for all. If you don’t fall into greed, there will be no problem. Try all the processes once if you wish; especially, immerse yourself in two fundamental processes, because they are the roots—love and meditation; devotion and knowledge. The soul and the Supreme.

Either see through meditation—throw your whole strength into meditation. For six months, dive into meditation; forget devotion. Then for six months, dive into devotion; forget meditation. Then the decision will come—whichever brings you into tune. Whichever makes your veena vibrate. Whichever opens your sky. Whichever gives your life wings—then choose that. Then there is no need to keep changing again and again.

There is no need to be greedy, because whether you arrive through devotion or through meditation, you arrive at the same place. Arrival is the same; the goal is one. The paths are many.

And my respect is for all—for all kinds of people, for all ways. Because from where I am standing, I see all paths ending at a single point. From the summit where I stand, the footpaths coming from the left arrive there, the ones from the right arrive there, the highway arrives there. Those who come flying in by airplane arrive there; those who come walking arrive there too. Horsemen are arriving. All sorts of people are coming.

The mountain is vast; paths come from every side. Travelers climb from all directions. But for those still on the paths, it is not possible to see that the other paths, too, lead to the very place we are going.

A walker on a path necessarily feels: “My path alone must be right.” He has to believe this, or he won’t be able to walk at all. He has to believe: “My path alone is right.” To strengthen this inner insistence, he starts telling others: “Your path is wrong. Islam is wrong; Hinduism is wrong; this is wrong, that is wrong. My path is right.”

He is not actually quarreling with you; he is trying to reassure his own mind. A greed arises within him: who knows, perhaps that neighbor, that Muslim, perhaps his path is right! He who is singing the verses of the Quran—perhaps that is what is right! And what am I doing—Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram! Who knows… He feels afraid. Out of fear and self-defense he shouts, “Stop this Allah-Allah! Nothing will come of it.”

Understand this: he says it for self-protection. He does not know whether anything will come of it or not. He does not even know whether what he is doing will work. How can one know until it happens? And when it has happened, the matter is finished.

Until it happens, doubt remains. To dispel this doubt he cries loudly, “You are wrong.”

Understand: what he wants to say is “I am right.” He doesn’t really mean “You are wrong.” How could he know you are wrong!

How will a Hindu know that the Quran is wrong? To know that, first he would have to dive into the Quran, travel through the Quran, live according to it. Only then would he know it is wrong.

You have never sat in an airplane, and you say, “The bullock cart is right. The airplane cannot take you there; only the bullock cart can.” How can you say that? Sit in it once; go and see once.

Those who have walked through many paths—like Ramakrishna—kept returning to say every time: all paths lead there.

The one who has arrived has seen that all paths lead there. But sometimes, out of compassion for you, even an enlightened one will not say so. Because you are strange. Your weakness is very peculiar.

When Mahavira arrived, he would have seen that devotees too had arrived. He would have seen Krishna there, flute in hand. On that summit he would have found Krishna too. He would have seen Lao Tzu resting in ease. He would have seen Rama coming along with his bow and arrow. “What is this?” he would have thought.

If Mahavira were to tell the people coming after him that all have arrived, there is a great fear that those people following him would fall into greed. They would begin to say, “If all are going, then why worry? Let us walk this way, or that.” They might become so confused—and there are so many paths—that choice would become difficult. They would stand bewildered, not knowing what to do.

Taking their weakness into account, Mahavira keeps saying, “Only this path brings you. None other will do.”

Krishna keeps saying it too; Rama keeps saying it: “Come by this path alone.” Krishna says: sarva-dharmān parityajya mam ekam sharanam vraja—abandon all dharmas and come to me alone for refuge. Only this refuge leads.

Jesus says: “Whoever goes through me will arrive. I am the door. Whoever does not go through me will repent.”

This does not mean that one who did not go through Jesus has not arrived. But Jesus says this—for the sake of friends like the one who asked this question. There is one convenience in this: those who walk the path feel reassured. But there is another danger: along with reassurance, bigotry is born.

And now we can see that in five thousand years of history, the benefit of this has been small and the harm large. Few have walked; most have spent their energy proving the others wrong. Therefore I have changed the whole approach.

I say to you: all paths are right. Now a danger arises—if you fall into greed, a danger arises.

When I say all paths are right, I am saying: the path you are on is also right. In truth, paths do not arrive; walkers arrive. Paths do not carry you; walkers go. Walk on any path; keep walking; you will arrive. But if hesitation enters your walking, then no path will take you. How can a path take you? A path does not go by itself; it goes because you walk.

Sometimes it happens that courageous walkers arrive even without a path—clambering over ravines and ridges where no one has ever walked. And the weak, lazy, indolent ones sit down on the royal roads, pitch their tents there, and settle down. By the milestone they think, “Delhi has come; the destination is reached.” And they sit there.

Here there is convenience for all kinds of people. I want no bigotry in the world.

Salutations to your lanes, O homeland, where
this is the common custom: whoever wishes walks with head held high.
No conditions—save a little care—
let some walk steady, and some stagger along.

There is no condition placed on you here: some may walk carefully, some may stagger. Some may walk the path of meditation, of awareness; some may walk after drinking the wine of love.

Here, everyone has the freedom.

Choose your own path. Do not call another wrong by forgetting him. That right is not yours. Choose your path—and keep walking.

If someone is walking while staggering, don’t say, “I am a traveler of awareness; walk carefully.” Do not impose conditions. For the staggering ones too have arrived—and sometimes even sooner than the careful ones. Because those who stagger, God supports. Those who are careful, God does not support—they support themselves!

That is why in the religions of Buddha and Mahavira there is no place for God. No need. They have supported themselves.

Jesus has said: As a shepherd returns at dusk and counts his sheep—out of a thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine are there; one has been lost on the way—he leaves the nine hundred and ninety-nine on the mountain, in danger, in solitude, and goes to search for the one!

Into the dark night he goes with a lantern, calling through the forests. And when he finds the sheep, Jesus says—do you know what he does? He places it on his shoulders and returns.

Those nine hundred and ninety-nine sheep will never know the joy of riding the shepherd’s shoulders. They never got lost, so they never got the chance to sit on his shoulders.

The one who walks with awareness arrives too, but he does not get the chance to sit upon God’s shoulders. That joy belongs to the devotee, the one who staggers, who wobbles—God must give him support. He has to.

As a child grows, the mother’s support lessens. The smaller and more helpless the child, the more the support.

The meditator is mature; the lover is helpless. Existence becomes a mother to him. The devotee remains a child. He does not abandon his childlike heart. That is why the devotee keeps weeping; he calls like a child. Sometimes he calls God “Father,” sometimes “Mother.” Understand his call.

When devotees have called God Mother and Father, what have they said? Only this: we are children. What strength is ours! We cannot walk on our own feet; we will fall. We stand up and we fall. If you support us, we will stand. We will stand only in your supporting.

These are two styles: either you support yourself—and then there is no need of another. Fine; the matter is finished. Support was the whole issue, and you supported yourself.

Have you noticed: a mother’s love is strongest for the child who is the weakest. This is exactly the opposite of economics. But economics and the scripture of love are opposite. According to economics, love should be for the strongest, the most intelligent, the most skilled. No—mother knows the strong, the intelligent, the skilled will manage for themselves. They have no need.

It is the weak who are less intelligent, who are more likely to stray, who may fall—the mother takes care of them.

It often happens that the sick child becomes dearest to the mother—more than the healthy ones.

The experience of God comes to those who stagger in helplessness. That is why in the religions of Buddha and Mahavira there is no place for God—because for Buddha and Mahavira there was no occasion to experience God. There was no need. They themselves became divine. They kindled their inner consciousness so intensely that there remained no reason to lean on any other existence. They reached the ultimate, but God did not “happen” anywhere; they themselves came as God.

The devotee experiences God—just as the lover experiences love. The experience of the lover is in love. In devotion, the experience is of God.

And I do not say to you which of these two experiences you should choose. No. I say: choose what resonates with you, what is dear to you.

Salutations to your lanes, O homeland, where
this is the common custom: whoever wishes walks with head held high.

One day you will understand. The processes I am setting in motion—you will salute them one day; you will say, “We deeply honor this.”

No conditions—save a little care—
No condition is imposed on anyone here. No rigid mold is being forced on anyone. Freedom is the very air here. By no pretext is anyone made dependent. What bondage on the path of liberation! What excuses!

No chains are being handed to you here; your chains are being broken.

No conditions—save a little care—
Let some walk steady, and some stagger along.

And I hold this to be the very possibility of the religion of the future. The old days are gone—the days of Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—of quarrels and bigotry. Those religions are, by and large, dead now; they await the bier. A wholly different world is arising, a new kind of religion is taking birth in which people will be religious—but not Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim. Temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras will remain, but the old bigotry will go. Each according to his joy.

Let some walk steady, and some stagger along.

In a single household there should be people of many religions, because in a single household there are people of many temperaments. The five sons born of the same father and mother are not alike. How then can all five be Hindus? How can all five be Muslims? They are so different—different in everything! One is skilled in mathematics, one in poetry—yet you do not insist, “Since you five are sons of one father, and your father is a mathematician, all five of you must be mathematicians.”

No—you would not say such a foolish thing. You know it is foolish. If the father is a mathematician, so be it. But there is no necessity that all five sons be mathematicians. Mathematical talent does not come through the blood. One may be a poet, one a mathematician, one a musician, one a dancer—one something else. You give them all a chance. But in matters of religion your insistence is filled with rigidity. You say: All five must be Muslims, all five Hindus, all five Jains—because you were born in a Jain home, a Muslim home! This is great foolishness.

In life you allow such freedom that one may be a mathematician and one a poet—things utterly opposite. For where is mathematics and where is poetry! They have no meeting point. There is no mathematics to poetry, and no poetry to mathematics. Mathematics proceeds by logic; poetry is alogical. Mathematics avoids contradictions; poetry seeks them. Contradiction is the very life of poetry—the paradox. The line becomes poetic right where contradiction arises.

Poetry’s eye is the discernment of beauty. The life of poetry is love. Mathematics is account and calculation. In mathematics the intellect has full expanse, but there is hardly any place for the juice of the heart.

Now these are two persons, born of the same father. And you say: both should be Hindus; both should be Jains. This is wrong. The one in whom poetry has awakened will be satisfied with Kabir, or with Meera. And the one in whom mathematics is crystal clear will be satisfied with Buddha and Mahavira.

We need a new breeze, a new mood, a new atmosphere—where this old insistence disappears; where religion is not imposed by force; where each person chooses his path by his own joy.

The day there are five or seven kinds of religious people in a single home, the world will surely be more beautiful. On that day, great love will arise in the world.

One of your sons goes to the temple; one goes to the mosque. Sometimes your son invites you to the mosque because there is a festival. And sometimes another son invites you to the temple because today is Krishna’s Janmashtami, or something else. You will become richer. Your life will have more dimensions, more sky, more directions.

It is rigidity that in one house there is only the Gita and in another only the Quran. Both remain incomplete. The Quran and the Gita should be together. Yes—let one read the Quran and another read the Gita.

This is my vision. And it seems to me this is the prophecy of the future.

Fear is natural, because all the ecstasies you have known till now have been lost. That is the distilled essence of your life. You fell in love with a woman and for a moment it felt: a great ecstasy is descending. Before you could even awake to it, it was gone. You chased status and again it felt: such ecstasy! Before the post even arrived, your hands were empty.

You have tasted many false ecstasies many times. So it’s natural that when the intoxication of sannyas begins to descend on you, a doubt arises: might this too be lost? But this is not the kind of ecstasy that is lost. And if it does get lost, know that it was not the ecstasy of sannyas at all; there must have been something else mixed in—some mistake, some illusion.

Thus, teasing the heart, the coquettish glance lowered,
As if someone hid away, just after calling your name.
What to do? There is a certain magnetism even in sin—
Otherwise why would I be deceived by spring like this!

Every time you know that spring comes, that blossoming arrives. And every time you also know that autumn will come. Yet you are deceived, again and again. There is a magnetism—even in sin, even in what we call “wrong,” there’s a pull. How many times have you not told yourself: Now enough, no more will I taste a woman; it’s finished. How many times have you not thought: I’m done with men; it’s over. I’ve seen it all. And then, before hours have even passed, the taste begins to stir again!

Even knowing it is fleeting, the mind keeps getting entangled. There is a reason. The reason is: here in the world you only ever get the fleeting; of the eternal you never catch even a glimpse. So what to do?

Two options seem to present themselves here. One: keep indulging in fleeting pleasures and keep weeping, repenting, falling into melancholy. Each time the peak of enjoyment comes, each time sorrow comes like a chasm and darkness surrounds you. That’s one option.

The other option: remain in the chasm; give up even the momentary; renounce even the transient. But that, too, does not satisfy. Because, well, transient though it may be—still, it is something. Sometimes spring does come. Sometimes a dream clouds the eyes. Sometimes, for a little while, you do get intoxicated. Granted that it lasts only a short while. But then, what else is there to do? That’s all.

But if the ecstasy of sannyas, or of meditation, or of devotion begins to descend, you will find: in this world there is something more than the world. In this world there is not only the fleeting; sometimes a ray of the eternal also descends here—surely it does. Because what Kabir found—“says Kabir, I found the Perfect”—he never lost again. What Buddha found, he lived forty-two years more and did not lose it for a single moment. I am a witness: in the last twenty-five years, not for a single moment has what has been found been lost.

What is happening now is very new. Fear arises because your old experiences are of the transient. And this is the eternal descending. Fear is natural; so I am not saying that because of your fear you should condemn yourself. It is perfectly natural.

Every time wealth has come into your hands, it proved to be trash. This time again a treasure has come to your hand. You fear: who knows, might this too prove empty—just another dream?

No, this will not turn out to be a dream, if the ecstasy is arising from meditation or devotion. If you are producing it by your own effort, it will fade.

What you do cannot be eternal. That which comes—descending from above—enfolds you, fills you; that which does not come from your doing alone, only that is eternal. That which is produced by your action is not eternal.

What you fashion with your clay hands—how can it be eternal? This body is transient. Seventy years—still transient. Whatever you make with this body will be transient. You carve a stone statue—bring the strongest granite—and sculpt it; it too will decay. The hands that made it were of clay; the doer was made of dust; how can the deed be eternal?

Whatever you do will remain transient.

The essence of my teaching is this: you step aside—don’t do; disappear; make space.

That is what Kabir said yesterday: be poor. Be poor means—become zero. Become as if you possess nothing. “Live your life in poverty.”

Become absolutely empty. I have nothing—only a begging bowl, empty—and suddenly you will find: someone is descending to fill your emptiness. Full—complete—descending. This is the descent. This is not your doing. You only become a witness to it—that it has descended into you. It is not manufactured by your mind. It happens only when your mind is not.

If this ecstasy is descending, keep only this in mind. Because many times you have become so false that even when nothing descends, you begin to pretend. Pretence will not last.

Often people become so imitative—like monkeys—that if one person sways in ecstasy, they too begin to sway.

Many times I see: one person is swaying in rapture; the one sitting next begins to sway as well—because he feels: people here are swaying; if I don’t, they’ll think…!

Once I went with a friend to a Bengali satsang. Bhajans were being sung in Bengali. Bengalis have a great devotional flavor. The mridang was sounding. I had spoken about Chaitanya; then they sang Chaitanya’s songs and danced.

The gentleman with me did not know Bengali. I was surprised, because he too started swaying—and even moving his lips, as if joining the hymn.

I leaned closer—he was right next to me—to hear, and he was uttering gibberish; it had nothing to do with the song.

On the way back, when we were alone, I asked, What was that? You were speaking such pure Bengali! He said, What Bengali? What are you talking about? A gathering of madmen! If I sat there straight, people would think, Who is this fool? And then they’d also think I don’t even know Bengali, and I don’t know ecstasy! So I was just faking it—moving my lips, murmuring anything under my breath so no one could catch on. And with such noise there, such madness, who could tell who was speaking Bengali and who Gujarati! That gentleman was Gujarati.

This happens—one becomes such a copycat; one lacks even the integrity to refrain when nothing is happening.

Psychologists say: even in small matters we do not live from within ourselves.

One man coughs; you’ll find many start coughing! One man gets up to urinate; another also goes! He had been sitting fine; he felt no urge. But instantly a suggestion was given, and the suggestion took hold.

Beware of this tendency; otherwise you can also manufacture a false ecstasy. It will never endure. Let ecstasy come. Let it descend.

The youth that cannot stay alive in the dry veins of autumn—
If it comes and simply goes, what kind of spring is that?
That which cannot be steady in moments of sobriety—
If it climbs to the head and then drops, what kind of intoxication is that?
The cry of Mansoor that never reached the tongue of the crowd—
If it remains stuck on your own lips, what kind of call is that?
If drinking does not free you from the prisons of space and time,
Then it is only practice of desire—what kind of intoxication is that?
He who lives leaning on ecstasies—that one is truly wise,
But he who leans on wakefulness—what kind of keeper of promises is he?
If it neither singes the hair nor the longing for the garden,
What lightning was that which set the nest aflame?
He who could not wash his sins away in the flood of his own tears—
What kind of penitent is he, what kind of tearful one?

He who wept—and could not wash away sin in his weeping—then that weeping was futile.

When a flood of tears arises from within—if you bring it on by rubbing chilies in your eyes, it won’t work. When the flood rises from feeling—authentic, factual; the heart wells up like monsoon clouds and pours through the eyes—

He who could not wash his sins away in the flood of his own tears—
What kind of penitent is he, what kind of tearful one?

Then sins do not remain. Hence the devotee does not worry, How will the sins of my past lives be erased? He knows: weeping is enough. These tears carry everything away—all dust and grime; all sins; all mistakes. Whoever wept from the heart was purified.

He who could not wash his sins away in the flood of his own tears—
He never truly drowned in tears; the flood never came to him.

The touchstone of tears is this: if they are true, they leave a halo of virtue around you as they pass.

If you have ever seen a devotee weep, look afterwards—there is a different radiance on the face. Something came, something else is leaving.

I see it here every day. When someone weeps from the heart, such freshness descends, such virginity—unique. He bathes in the Divine.

You say you are ready for sacrifice; you say you are moths who want to burn; but you keep circling far off—you don’t come near the flame.

If it neither singes the hair nor the longing for the garden,
What lightning was that which set the nest aflame?

Neither the nest burned nor the house; neither feet nor wings were singed. Nothing burned—and you say lightning struck my nest! When lightning strikes, you do not survive. Only ecstasy survives; you do not.

When true ecstasy comes, there is only ecstasy; there is no one intoxicated. That is the criterion.

He who lives leaning on ecstasies—that one is truly wise,
But he who leans on wakefulness—what kind of keeper of promises is he?

If even the distinction remains that this is ecstasy, that I am intoxicated—if even that much separation remains—then the ecstasy is not yet complete. It is still outside you. It has not yet broken down the doors and entered within.

When ecstasy enters within, who even remembers: I am intoxicated? It is so total—who is left to keep accounts?

If drinking does not free you from the prisons of space and time,
Then it is only practice of desire—what kind of intoxication is that?

Many times we sip false wines.

Understand. You listen to me. Sometimes you are intoxicated by the beauty of the saying; but that is not real ecstasy. Sometimes the very manner of saying sways you; that is not real ecstasy. What I am saying—its essence—when that strikes your heart—

What is in the manner of saying? One may speak with great artistry, use beautiful words, a well-wrought, poetic style—still, nothing. If there is no life inside, it is an adorned corpse. And an adorned corpse, even if set with diamonds and jewels, is worth less than two pennies before a poor living man. Life is the real thing.

So do not be impressed by my words. When the message within the words touches you—

The cry of Mansoor that never reached the tongue of the crowd—
If it remains stuck on your own lips, what kind of call is that?

And when ecstasy comes, it breaks all dams—like it broke in Mansoor; he began to shout, “An-al-Haqq—I am the Truth.”

Mansoor’s master, Junaid, said: Crazy Mansoor, I know it too. My other disciples also know. Nothing unique has happened only to you. But keep your mouth shut. This land belongs to madmen; there will be danger here.

But whenever ecstasy came upon Mansoor, he would forget what the master said; he would shout again: An-al-Haqq!

The master explained many times—seven times, they say. Then the master said, Leave this place; you’ll drag us into trouble too.

One wonders: why was Junaid so afraid? He says, I know it too.

The cry of Mansoor that never reached the tongue of the crowd—
If it remains stuck on your own lips, what kind of call is that?

He says: I know—but it does not come to the tongue. If one knows “I am Brahman,” what fear remains then—that Muslims will be annoyed, that they will hang me, who will say what, what trouble may come? Even that fear?

Whenever Mansoor was intoxicated, that one sound arose. Then the master banished him. Mansoor bowed and left, wandering from village to village. But that cry kept resounding.

When Mansoor was in his senses, he would not say it. But there were moments when the flood rose—Mansoor disappeared and only God spoke. Then what could Mansoor do! He was arrested.

When he was arrested, the caliph asked the master to give a written certificate that this man is a heretic, a kafir, because what he is saying is blasphemy.

They say Junaid wrote it. And Mansoor was hanged. But to Mansoor it made no difference.

On the day the guards came to take him from the prison, he was in ecstasy. The sound of An-al-Haqq was arising; the divine resonance was resounding. Those who came to take him lost their senses. It was raining. They stood transfixed. Hours passed. Word reached the emperor: those who went to fetch him are standing stunned; something extraordinary is happening; Mansoor is crying in such a way that they dare not drag him out of the cell.

Soldiers were sent, the executioner too. They tried to drag him, but he was in ecstasy. When someone is in ecstasy, he is God. They could not move him. The caliph grew anxious and said, Bring Junaid; perhaps he can manage.

Junaid came and said: Look, I am your master. Listen to me. Step outside your ecstasy. Hearing the master’s voice, Mansoor opened his eyes. As soon as he stepped outside, he could be dragged away.

When you are in ecstasy, you are God—you are not.

In the beginning there will be windows of ecstasy; then slowly it becomes steady; then gradually it becomes your very breath, your heartbeat.

As long as you are, ecstasy is not complete. And what comes and goes is not true ecstasy.

The youth that cannot stay alive in the dry veins of autumn—
Even if autumn is happening, to one in ecstasy it is spring. Even if death is coming, to one in ecstasy it is life. Even if clouds of sorrow gather, for one in ecstasy only lightnings of bliss flash.

The youth that cannot stay alive in the dry veins of autumn—
If it comes and simply goes, what kind of spring is that?

There is a spring that, once it comes, never leaves. I am speaking of that spring. Perhaps a breeze has carried to you a fragrance from its flowers.

Drop concern for past experiences. Bathe in this fragrance. Befriend it. Walk with it reverently. Take its hand—go wherever it leads. Do not be clever.

That which cannot be steady in moments of sobriety—
If it climbs to the head and then drops, what kind of intoxication is that?

No, this is not an intoxication that will pass. This is not a magic that fades. But everything depends on you. It comes from beyond you. If you allow it, it will come. If you shut your doors, what can it do!

Imagine the sun has risen and you sit inside with the door closed. The sun rises—let it rise; you sit in darkness. You can arrange even more—perhaps a ray may slip through a crack; so you close your eyes. You can go further and tie a black band over your eyes. Then the sun will pour down on all sides and you will remain in darkness. Your new moon night will remain a new moon night.

When the Divine descends, open your doors. That is the meaning of trust—that when it comes, you welcome it.

Your past will oppose you. Your past will say: Beware, you have been deceived many times. It will create doubt. It will say that such moments have come before. But in truth, such a moment has never come.

Look closely: have you ever known such ecstasy before? If you had known this and it left, then this is not true ecstasy; this is not what I am speaking of.

No, you have never known this ecstasy before. You have known the intoxications of wealth, of status, of ego—but this you have never known. This is the ecstasy of sannyas. It has come for the first time. It is unprecedented. It has never come into your experience. So do not cast the doubts of old experiences upon it; otherwise you will distort it.

Go with it. Drown in this ecstasy. This intoxication will endure. This dye will hold. It is a fast color.

Kabir said: My master dyed my cloth in a fast color. Later Kabir said: Now I too have become a dyer; I dye people’s cloth in a fast color.

This is not a color that fades; not an intoxication that wears off; not an ecstasy that passes. But all depends on you. You can even lose a treasure that has arrived. This treasure is the eternal’s. Yet if you want to refuse, you are free to refuse. You can close your doors.

Keep the doors open. The past will pull. It will say: Beware; don’t make a mistake. But the past is irrelevant here, because this is new. It has never happened before. So nothing in the past is of use in this new situation.

This love is new, this style is new, this dawn is new—enter it. It will grow. You will diminish—it will grow. You will go on becoming smaller; it will go on becoming greater. One day you will find: you have so diminished that you are gone; only ecstasy remains. Another name for that ecstasy is God—or say samadhi.

Let a woman ask this. Why does such a question arise in you, being a man? As a man, the question that should arise is: so many women became satis—how is a man to become sati? So many women, in memory of their lovers, climbed onto the funeral pyre; how is a man to climb?
No, Chinmay does not ask that—because there is trouble in it. It would require Chinmay himself to climb some pyre. “How should women climb”—that has juice for him. All men have had a taste for that.
A woman’s becoming sati is spoken of as great glory; but a man’s curiosity in it is great violence—a heinous crime.
Why does this question arise in your mind? Why would a man want to make a woman climb the pyre?
If this question is raised to understand love, then from the man’s side the man ought to ask: how do I climb too? So many women climbed in love—when will the moment come when a man will climb?
Men have committed great excess. Men have treated women as if they were property. In this country they even say: stri-sampatti—woman-as-property. So when the man dies, he is afraid: someone else might enjoy my property. He wants her to burn and die with him. This is the male ego and nothing else.
Even while living he kept her bound so that his wife might never cast a loving glance at another. Even after dying he is uneasy; even in death he is afraid: now that I’m gone, my wife may fall in love with someone!
This fear itself shows that love never happened. If there were love, what fear? If there were love, what jealousy? There was nothing like love; it was a kind of possession. The woman was the man’s acquisition. Now even after death he wants to keep his grip—this is the limit! The dead wanting to keep hold over the living!
But society belonged to men. So men explained to women that the husband is God. It is men who taught women—“the husband is God!” And women accepted and sat with it, though nothing godly is visible in the husband.
The truth is, if God were like a husband, women would start being afraid of God too. There is nothing of God visible in the husband; rather, one might worry lest there be something of the husband in God.
Men have committed great violence. The crimes of men against humankind are heinous—among them, sati is one heinous crime.
I praised the glory of sati—from the woman’s side. From the man’s side I cannot call it glory.
You must have felt pleased, Chinmay—“Right! This feels so comforting: when we die and are carried to the pyre, some woman will jump into our pyre and die.” It gives great comfort—“Ah, we were men indeed! What wondrous men—that while alive a woman was crazy about us, and when we died, she died with us.”
No; I am not in favor of the sati custom. I am certainly in favor of the feeling of sati. If a woman is moved—out of her own joy, her own ecstasy; it should arise from within her. There should be no social pressure on her... And social pressures are very subtle, very indirect.
If society even praises a sati, that too is pressure. It means: if she dies by climbing onto her husband’s pyre, society will praise her; if she does not, she will not be praised. So shrines to satis are erected; their memorials are built. This is a device, propaganda; it advertises to other women: “If you want a shrine, this is what you must do. If you want a memorial and flowers offered, this is the price!”
And women who do not do this are in one way or another suspected of loose character: “Your husband has died—what are you doing here? For whom are you sitting around? If you loved your life-beloved, then go with him; what meaning is there now in your staying here? Your meaning was with him. His life was your meaning.”
This is wrong. This propaganda is wrong. And if this propaganda were right, then the same should hold from the other side as well: the man should do the very thing he demands of the woman. But men do something else entirely. Even before the woman dies, they’re thinking: “When will she die, how might she die—how do I get free of this bother!” She is dying in the hospital, and sitting right by the cot he is thinking: “Now whom shall I marry?” They go to the cremation ground to bid farewell—and there the discussion starts: “Now where shall we get him married? How shall we arrange it?”
Mullah Nasruddin’s wife was dying. At the moment of death she said: “Nasruddin, I have one thing to ask—just give me one assurance.”
Mullah got a little scared that at the time of dying she might exact a troublesome promise. He said: “First tell me—what promise?”
She said: “It’s a small promise; I’m not asking anything big. I only want this... I know that the moment I die you will marry. I won’t ask you to promise not to—because that won’t be possible for you...”
Women know their husbands—what is possible for them and what isn’t.
“So I won’t ask that; that would be asking too much. I only ask that my clothes and my jewelry—the other woman you bring into the house should not use them. That would cause my soul great sorrow.”
Mullah said: “Be completely carefree. First, I’m not going to marry; and second, Rehana won’t fit into your clothes.”
“I’m not going to marry at all, and besides, Rehana won’t fit into your clothes.” — Such is the male mind. Men wanted to turn women into goddesses so that goddesses could be exploited properly. Men have never considered women their equals.
Either a goddess—put her up in the sky. This too is a strategy of exploitation, because once you make someone a goddess, she has to behave like a goddess. Or an animal...
With Tulsidas you can see both pictures: either seat Sita as a goddess, or count her along with low castes, drums, and animals—“These all deserve to be beaten.”
“Shudra, fool, drum, animal, woman—
all these deserve to be thrashed.”
All these should be beaten. On one side this—just as a drum plays when you beat it, so too a wife is fine only if you beat her; otherwise she won’t stay under control. As animals must be beaten to keep them in hand. As low castes must...
Now the beatings of low castes that go on in this country—people like your Tulsidas have a hand in it. That village Brahmin who sets fire to a low-caste person’s hut—you won’t be able to stop him as long as these Tulsidas-types dominate. Until Tulsidas is bid farewell, you won’t be able to stop it, because this is the poison he has been fed since childhood, hearing it. It is by reading Tulsidas’ Ramcharitmanas over and over that the mind of this country has been corrupted.
And on the other side, the other fun: goddess! Then people are puzzled—what is this? On one side they make the woman a goddess; put her very high. On the other, they make her utterly low, a doormat. But both mean the same. These are both strategies of exploitation.
After making Sita a goddess, the conduct that was obtained from Rama toward Sita is not proper conduct.
When Valmiki has Rama victorious and Sita freed from Ashok Vatika, the words he puts in Rama’s mouth toward Sita are very rude. Whether Rama said them or not is not the question. The words Valmiki has him say are rude.
Rama says: “O woman, keep in mind that I did not fight this war for you. What is your worth! I fought for the honor of the Raghu clan.”
Then the trial by fire! But the striking thing is that men never thought: Sita was apart from Rama all those days—fine, let there be a trial by fire. Rama too was apart all those days. His trial by fire? That question never arose.
Both should have stepped into the fire together. Both would have been tested. The matter would have been clear. But Sita must take the trial by fire! And Rama?
No; men always keep themselves outside the rule. All rules are for women; all freedom is for men!
This society was made by men; the scriptures were authored by men; the entire framework is theirs.
Sita does not even say: “And, Your Majesty, you? You too were apart so long—who knows where, with what monkeys and the rest—whom you were with, what you did, what you didn’t? As for you—? You too, step in.”
No; but a goddess cannot say such a thing! Goddesses cannot speak such words. Goddesses always do exactly what is absolutely proper—without the slightest deviation.
So Sita is accorded the highest honor... But honor too is a strategy of exploitation. “So—step into the fire.” And the poor woman stepped in.
But even that resolved nothing. Even that resolved nothing! The trial by fire did not help much.
A washerman sowed doubt! You keep thinking: the trial by fire was done. Still Rama had no trust? A single washerman raises a doubt!
But remember: the washerman too is a man. It was not a washerwoman who raised the doubt; this is the male net.
So Sita was flung away again—as if she were a fly fallen into milk. She has no value, no price, no dignity.
If Rama truly felt, “There should be no doubt about me among my subjects”... If one person has a doubt, then fine—he should have renounced the throne, and gone taking Sita into the forest. He should have said, “Where there is no reverence for me, no reverence for my wife, I will not stay.” That would have made sense.
But people sing great praises: Maryada Purushottam—“Look, at a washerman’s word he abandoned Sita!”
He abandoned Sita, but did not abandon the throne. The straightforward thing would be to leave the throne: “Alright—it’s over. In a populace that has no trust in me, I step aside.”
Why should the question of abandoning Sita arise at all! No—but the throne is valuable. What is there in Sita! A woman is property; she can be sacrificed for anything.
Still, Sita is a goddess, so she can say nothing; hence she goes to the forest.
Sending a pregnant woman to the forest causes Rama not the least difficulty! This is the male net.
Whether Rama did this or not, I am not saying. What Rama actually did, I do not know. Whether there ever was a Rama is also not the point. But this is the male net.
These scriptures are all composed by men and composed to suit themselves. There is politics in it.
So either make the woman a goddess so that she cannot do anything; cannot even think. And keep the man absolutely free.
We say: “Men are men.” What does that mean? It means—everything is permitted to the man.
If a man errs, we say—“After all, he’s a man.” You see: there are prostitutes in the world; there are no male prostitutes. Why? Because men need prostitutes; for a woman the question does not even arise. A man keeps a wife and there is a prostitute in the town—he has the convenience to go and exploit other women.
But there are no prostitutes for women; there are no men doing the work of a prostitute—because we cannot even entertain that. A woman is a goddess. How could she have such needs? Such needs—only men have!
This too is a great joke. We give no leeway to women—neither in life nor in death.
So when I praised the glory of sati, I spoke from the woman’s side, not from the man’s. Do not misunderstand me. I am not a supporter of Tulsidas.
Yog Chinmay asks: “For today’s and tomorrow’s woman, what is the value of sati? That today’s woman may also touch the height of sati...”
Why? Is it only the woman who has to touch the heights? Don’t you have to touch the heights? You, too—touch them! Women have touched heights enough; now let them touch a little of the lowlands too. Let them become human. Now you also enjoy the fun of touching the heights.
No; this question is wrong. From the man’s side, it is wrong. Understand the difference.
Had a woman asked this, I would have said something else. A man has asked it, therefore I have no sympathy here.
There is a glory to sati; a definite glory. Not because a woman surrenders to a man, but because love and surrender themselves are glorious. If only men could do the same, the glory would increase even more!

So far it has been one-sided; this has been unbalanced. In this matter women have thoroughly defeated men. Even the greatest of men have come up small. Even the most ordinary woman, in matters of love, leaves man far behind.

But it should be spontaneous—no social pressure, no indirect social conditioning. A woman who surrenders herself is blessed. But one who does not should not be insulted. If she does not surrender, that is her own choice; the insult should be sent away.

From the time the practice of sati came to be honored, from that very time the widow became insulted. The very meaning of “widow” became: one who stopped short of becoming sati. What is the widow’s insult? It is simply this: where a hundred women were becoming sati, some women did not. Then gradually the number of those not becoming sati increased, and their insult increased. “They must become sati”—then this was no longer a principle; it became coercion. It turned into a police law—that one must become sati!

It is not a question of “one must become sati.” It is the manifestation of love. If it happens, it is supreme good fortune. If it does not, there is no insult at all.

My way of measuring is this: if sati does not happen, that is perfectly natural. There is nothing unnatural in it. Who wants to die? Why die? You loved this man; tomorrow you may love another man—what need is there to die?

It is entirely natural not to become sati; there is not the slightest insult in it; it is natural—this alone is natural. You fancied a certain kind of food; today that food is no longer available—will you die? You will look for another food. You delighted in a certain style of clothing; today those clothes are not available; they are no longer made; the mill has closed. You won’t go around naked! You will choose other clothes. It may be they are not as fine as those that used to come from the mill that shut down, but still, what will you do! You will accept second-best clothes. It may be you will still remember the old ones, but even so—what will you do!

If you are dying in the desert and you will not find pure water, you will agree to drink dirty water too. What else will you do? This does not mean you are against pure water. You know this is compulsion.

You loved your husband; he has passed away. It is completely natural that you find a second husband. There is not the slightest insult in this. This is my view. But if some woman—or some man (about the latter I have my doubts)… if they wish to surrender, this is something very otherworldly. It should indeed be honored; but one who does not should not be insulted.

There is no sin in not doing it; in doing it there is virtue. In doing it there is great glory. But let it come from the heart; let it arise from within. Let it be an act of love, not of conditioning—not of scripture, not of society.

Let love itself tell you: What meaning is there now in my being! The one with whom joy was to flow, with whom life was to be, with whom the adornment and beauty of life was, has gone; I too take leave. Now there is no meaning in being alone.

But not by persuading yourself with calculations like: What is the point now, how will I live now; who will bring the food, who will arrange the bread; where will I find at this age another man; what will people say! If such motives are present, then it is suicide—not sati. There is a difference between sati and suicide.

Sati means: now to go on living would be suicide; now, in dying, there is life. And suicide means: now living will be very difficult, troubles will come; I have never earned in life; a woman has never gone out to earn; never held a job—now where will I work! At whose door will I beg? The children must be brought up—how will it happen, what will happen? This is a huge hassle; better to die than this. This is suicide.

Suicide cannot be praised. Suicide is violence and sin.

If no one becomes sati—that is natural. If someone does become sati—that is otherworldly. The ideal of becoming sati should not be explained or taught—it should come unlearned. And this applies as much to men as to women. It cannot be one-sided. If one-sided, it is injustice.

The last question:

Life is like a blank canvas; paint upon it and meaning will appear. The meaning will depend on your skill. If a Picasso paints, it will be worth millions; if you paint, perhaps it won’t fetch millions. There is as much meaning in life as we put into it.

Life in itself is empty; life is a bare opportunity. Possibility is all; actuality is nothing. That’s why people so often think: life is futile! What meaning?

People come to me asking, “What is the meaning of life?” They are imagining that meaning is some ready‑made thing—lying around somewhere to be handed to you, like predigested food. No; meaning is born of creativity. Compose a few songs; make a sculpture; dance a little. Love a little; meditate a little. Explore; dive into inquiry. And you will find that meaning begins to arrive.

And the more multidimensional your being, the more unending quests surround your life; the greater your audacity to set out on an adventure, the greater the meaning. In this very life someone becomes a Buddha—someone a Kabir—and someone else dies merely being shoved around. There is no meaning; it has to be created.

When this body grows cold, only ash will remain;
rise—turn the warmth of your breaths into a flame.
You will not be able to hear anything in the silence of death;
make the voice of your heart, now, a clarion cry.
Once the eyes have closed, they will see nothing—
turn the profusion of radiance into a single revelation.
When the curtain lifts, nothing will remain here;
make the gaze of longing itself your veil.
There is a moment in which pre‑eternity and post‑eternity vanish;
make that one moment the harvest of your whole life.
There is a melody in which all notes merge;
make your very being that single melody.
There is a point that contains the expanse of the cosmos;
turn the vastness of your heart into that very point.
There is a flame—pure light of the One through and through;
let the crimson of your lifeblood become that very flame.

Do something!

When this body grows cold, only ash will remain;
rise—turn the warmth of your breaths into a flame.

Make some use of these breaths! Make some use of the warmth that runs in them! This blood coursing through your life—use it! This heartbeat—use it! This lamp of consciousness burning within you—use it! Soon only ash will remain. Yes, those who use it will take wing. The ash will lie here, and the swan will fly to the other shore.

When this body grows cold, only ash will remain;
rise—turn the warmth of your breaths into a flame.

You will not be able to hear anything in the silence of death…
Right now you have ears—do something now! Learn the art of listening! Learn the art of hearing! Right now you have eyes—learn the art of seeing!

You will not be able to hear anything in the silence of death;
make the voice of your heart, now, a clarion cry.

Right now there is something in your heart—let a hymn rise from it, or let a curse rise. It depends on you. Meaning depends on you. Either rouse abuse—these very breaths will become abuse—or let a hymn arise, a Hari‑bhajan; let the remembrance of Ram arise.

Once the eyes have closed, they will see nothing—
turn the profusion of radiance into a single revelation.

Before the eyes close, see what is worth seeing! That which is worth seeing is present all around. It is hidden in flowers, in mountains, in rivers, in waterfalls. It is present everywhere. It is hidden in people. Before the eyes close, see the invisible! Then your life will have meaning.

There is a moment in which pre‑eternity and post‑eternity vanish—
there is such a moment of samadhi, of meditation, where there is neither beginning nor end.

There is a moment in which pre‑eternity and post‑eternity vanish;
make that one moment the harvest of your whole life.

That single moment will be the entire achievement of your life; that is life’s attainment. To find that moment where beginning and end become one; where the source and the destination are one; where the place from which we come and the place to which we go appear together—if you can find that moment, then there is meaning.

There is a moment in which pre‑eternity and post‑eternity vanish;
make that one moment the harvest of your whole life.

There is a melody in which all notes merge…

There is a song within you, hidden—just as a tree is hidden in a seed, so a melody lies concealed within you.

There is a melody in which all notes merge;
make your very being that single melody.

Pluck the strings of your veena. Awaken. Don’t sit around saying, “What is the meaning of life?” Sitting idly, there is no meaning; there is only meaninglessness. Do something! You are alive now; give this life’s energy some active expression! You can become a song.

There is a point that contains the expanse of the cosmos—
a tiny point within you in which the whole world is hidden—pind mein brahmand: in your atom the vast is concealed.

Turn the vastness of your heart into that very point—
become that little zero‑point. Become the point, and the way to become the ocean begins.

Don’t sit outside waiting like a beggar for someone to come and drop the meaning of life into your bowl. No one has come, nor will come. Whom are you waiting for? Rise! Do something! This rising and doing is what I call sannyas. Rise, and you will attain. One day you too will be able to say: “Says Kabir, I have found the Perfect.”

I tell you: “Says Kabir, I have found the Perfect.” One day you too will be able to say it. It is your capacity; it is your challenge.

Meaning in life is not got in alms; meaning must be awakened. Meaning has to be given birth.

Meaning can be—but it will not happen by itself. Do not wait. Beggars come empty and go empty. You came empty, but going empty is not necessary. You can go full.

All these sutras are to awaken that meaning.
That is all for today.