Kahe Kabir Main Pura Paya #4

The human mind is very troublesome. When there is suffering it believes; when there is joy it doubts. No one ever suspects suffering, wondering, “Perhaps this is only imagination!” Suffering you accept straight away—with great conviction and faith. I have never met a person who says, “I am very miserable, but I doubt whether I truly am or am just imagining it! Perhaps I am exaggerating my suffering!” No one says that.

We accept suffering. We have great faith in it. But when the wave of bliss arrives, doubts begin to rise: maybe it’s imagination, maybe a dream, maybe self-hypnosis. Perhaps I have fallen into some delusion! Am I exaggerating? Am I going mad? A thousand such questions arise. This needs to be looked into.

You accept suffering because suffering is the nature of the mind. You cannot accept bliss because bliss is not the nature of the mind. Bliss is beyond the mind. Suffering is within the mind. Suffering is the mind—and bliss is the state of no-mind. How can the mind accept it?

Darkness accepts darkness—but how can it accept light? Light is so incomprehensible; it comes from the unknown. From where it comes, one does not know. One thing is certain: it does not arise from within darkness.

What arises within your mind, what leaves sprout upon your mind’s tree, those seem natural, because you are identified with the mind. You are not identified with the soul.

Bliss is the nature of the soul. Suffering is the nature of the mind.

You are accustomed to dwelling in the mind. Your recognition of the soul has slipped away. So when, from the unknown—unknown I say because you have no awareness of the soul—when from that unfamiliar path a ray descends—dancing, its anklets chiming—the mind starts and says, “This must be imagination!” Because whenever the mind has known pleasure, it has known it only in imagination. In actuality it has never known it.

A big house appears—“If I get it, I will be greatly pleased.” In such imaginings the mind has known pleasure. If I could have that beautiful woman, that handsome man, a lovely son; if these flowers would bloom in my garden; if I had this reputation, that name, that post—the mind has enjoyed itself in such imaginings, in hope, in desire—only in imagination. When that house comes, the mind finds no joy. When you possess that woman or that man, the mind finds no joy. The mind does not know how to take joy. The mind is unfamiliar with the language of joy.

So the mind has found pleasure only in imagination; in actuality it has found suffering.

Therefore when, for the first time in your life, a ray of the soul descends—dancing, humming, overflowing with delight, awakening fragrance, blooming a thousand flowers—when the spring of bliss comes upon you, the mind will say, “Again some imagination!” For births upon births, this has been the mind’s experience. The mind will say, “I am exaggerating! This cannot be! Has this ever happened? How could this be?”

Suffering happens; it has happened; it is experienced, known, familiar. It is our history. But this bliss that is arriving has no connection with that history. It comes from outside your autobiography. Your autobiography is of sorrow, pain, and torment—of hell. And now heaven starts descending! Surely you have fallen into some dream, some intoxication, some madness.

Understand this condition of the mind.

And if you listen to the mind, the bliss that is descending will become a dream—because you will not accept it. You will turn the guest away at the door. The bliss that was descending was real; it could have become real for you—could have become the treasure of your life. But your mind says, “It’s imagination; I cannot accept it. Such a thing—and for me! No, no—impossible!” If you say this and keep your feet frozen there, you will not open the door. The guest came to your door and turned back. Then it will certainly become a dream. And the mind will say, “Look, I told you beforehand!” That is why I say the mind is a great mischief-maker. The mind will say, “See, I told you it was a dream; now look—dream it became.” The mind, by saying so, makes it a dream.

The mind does not know how to live with joy. The mind’s revelry is in suffering.

Let it sound contradictory if it must, but it is so: the mind feels happy when it is unhappy, and the mind becomes unhappy when there is happiness.

“Now life seems useless to me—
the calamity is that the intoxication of grief has worn off.”

And when the intoxication of sorrow wears off, the mind begins to die.

“Now life seems useless to me—
the calamity is that the intoxication of grief has worn off.”

Then in life nothing seems to have purpose, no meaning appears.

That is why you will be surprised to know that those who have nothing in life are not eager for religion—because their minds still have enough scope to spread. No house—so they can imagine a house. No wife—so they can imagine a wife. No children—so they can imagine children. The less there is, the more room there is for imagination. The mind can keep making hopes.

But if everything the mind asks for is given—then what will you do? Then there is no more place for hope to expand. All hopes fulfilled—then what? All pains cut away—then what?

“Now life seems useless to me—
the calamity is that the intoxication of grief has worn off.”

Sorrow too has its intoxication. When it subsides, suddenly it seems: what’s the point of living now? Hence people clutch their sorrow. On the one hand they keep saying they want to be free of suffering, on the other they do not let go of suffering. They keep saying, “Anger is bad,” yet they don’t drop it. “Attachment is bad,” yet they don’t drop it. “Jealousy burns like fire—what greater flames could hell have!”—yet they don’t drop it. These are just words. If someone trusted what you say, he would land in great difficulty, because you do the very opposite of what you say.

The formulas for happiness are very simple and clear. But the obstacle is that you want to cling to your suffering. This too becomes an occupation for your mind: “There is suffering, and I must get rid of it.” You are afraid you may actually be rid of it—otherwise what will you do? Such is your state.

You ask: “A rain of bliss is pouring; I feel like thanking you.”

Even there—miserliness! You feel like it; you have not given thanks yet. You are thinking! You feel like it, and you are suppressing it. Such stinginess even in giving thanks!

The mind does not know how to offer thanks either. That too is not its language. The mind knows how to complain. The mind is a born complainer. Because complaining also produces suffering; complaining also produces pain; complaining also sticks a thorn in you. And the more you complain, the more suffering grows. And the more you give thanks, the more joy grows.

Gratitude means: you have embraced joy. Only then can you give thanks! As of now you have not accepted; then what thanks? Right now you are doubtful whether what is happening is even true. If it is only imagination, then why give thanks? First decide whether it is true; if it is true, then we will think about thanks.

Even when it is true, people are very miserly with thanks.

I have heard: In America there was a very large jewelry store, the biggest. The store was completing a hundred years. The owners decided that whoever was the first customer to enter the store the next morning would be presented with a necklace worth one lakh. This was how they would begin the centenary celebration. Whoever entered first...

The doors opened and a woman hurried in. The band struck up; everyone surrounded her—the whole staff. The owner came and placed around her neck a necklace worth one lakh. But the woman just stood there. They explained that they had decided to present a necklace worth one lakh to the first customer; she was blessed to be that one.

Then they asked, “What did you come for?” She said, “To file a complaint.” (In big American stores a complaints register is kept.) To file a complaint! And even after receiving a necklace worth one lakh, she did not forget to register her complaint. That necklace meant nothing to her!

As soon as the little ceremony ended, she ran straight to the office and wrote her complaint in the register. Even that gift could not please her, could not move her to say thanks. The complaint had to be made.

The mind is adept at complaining. The mind is very eloquent in complaint. When you begin to complain, have you noticed how skillfully you speak? Listen to people’s sorrows: while speaking of suffering, everyone is an orator; he speaks with great skill. Speaking of suffering, everyone becomes a poet; he searches for just the right similes.

Listen to people’s troubles—they can go on for hours! They keep narrating; there is no end. But in happiness the tongue starts to stammer.

Now you ask: “I feel like giving thanks!”

Why suppress it? Why such miserliness in giving thanks? What will thanks take away from you? In gratitude you lose nothing; you gain much. And in complaint you lose much and gain nothing.

But you are your own enemy. You do just those things that betray yourself—self-sabotage. What is there to ask? Give thanks! And you will be surprised: the very moment you give thanks, more bliss will descend. Because to give thanks means you have accepted the bliss that had descended—accepted its truth, acknowledged its authenticity. Only then could you give thanks.

“I feel like giving thanks, but I don’t know whether bliss is truly raining, or it is imagination, or exaggeration.”

How will you ascertain this? Bliss is raining.

This airplane is passing by; you hear the sound... (at this very moment in the discourse a plane passed overhead) ...how else will you know that this is not imagination? These sunrays are coming to you, filtering through the trees—how else will you know it is not imagination? These birds’ songs are reaching you—how else will you know it is not imagination? What other means is there? Yes, it can happen that in this thinking and analyzing...

If you have a headache, you know there is a headache. When the fragrance of flowers fills your nostrils, you know you are surrounded by fragrance. When you see and your eyes fill with moon and stars, you know that the moon and stars are there. What other way is there?

Why do you want to impose extra conditions upon bliss? Is it not enough that you experience bliss raining upon you? Bathe in this rain of bliss. Melt into it; be lost in it. Let gratitude arise. Otherwise it happens sometimes that a person misses just as he is arriving; he stops just as he comes close. Sometimes only one step remains to the goal—and the person turns back.

“When hostile times prevail, work spoils just as it’s getting done—
the little boat went adrift to midstream after striking the shore.”

Sometimes it happens: the boat touches the shore and then drifts away from it and sinks midstream. It touches the shore and ends up in midstream.

“When hostile times prevail, work spoils just as it’s getting done—
the little boat went adrift to midstream after striking the shore.”

You are on the shore—be courageous! I say: gather the courage to accept bliss! Great courage is needed to accept bliss.

Suffering anyone can accept; no courage is needed to accept suffering. To accept bliss is a great act of courage, of daring. Because bliss will dissolve your ego. Bliss will break the old current that has been flowing till now. Bliss will wipe out your past and a new birth, a new future will begin. In bliss there is death—and rebirth.

Be courageous. Accept. Bliss is indeed raining. And you are blessed that grace has descended upon you. Do not lose it in such talk; otherwise you will repent later.

“When hostile times prevail, work spoils just as it’s getting done—
the little boat went adrift to midstream after striking the shore.”

Then you will repent greatly, because who knows whether this shore will be found again! Who knows how far you might drift from the shore! Today you are here with me; today you are in this air; today you have found this company of dancing, joyous people all around you—who knows whether you will find it again! Today the scale of meditation has begun to settle within you; who knows whether such good fortune will be there tomorrow! Do not wait for tomorrow; what is happening today, fill it into your heart. Embrace it! Be ecstatic!

What will you lose! At worst, take it that it was imagination.

Sometimes I am amazed that even if we assume it is imagination, then too being happy in imagination is better than being miserable in reality. Although this is not imagination. But I say to you: let us suppose it is imagination—what’s the harm? If for a little while you are happy even in imagination... Won’t you even give yourself that much rest? Such a stubborn insistence on being miserable!

Let it be imagination then; relish it a little while even in imagination. What is imagination today may become reality tomorrow. Although let me repeat: it is not imagination. And let me also tell you: all your suffering is imagination; bliss is not imagination.

That is why the wise have called bliss your nature. Nature means: that which already abides within you. And suffering is alien. It is not within you; it is assumed; it is your belief. Someone said something; you took it as an insult and became miserable. Someone was standing on the road laughing—he might have been laughing about something else—you thought he was laughing at you and became miserable.

Suffering comes from outside. Bliss arises from within. Suffering comes from others—from the world. Bliss is from oneself. Suffering is imagination, because whatever you take from outside is not truly yours. The abuses given from outside will remain lying outside; honors too will remain outside. The outer has little value. At most it touches your surface.

Winds of great speed come over the ocean and waves spread across it—but they spread only on the surface. In its depths the ocean is empty, silent; there are no waves there, no disturbance, no change. There the eternal resides. There is the state of samadhi.

Such is your condition. In your ultimate depth everything is peaceful, silent, full of bliss. Only on your surface... and that surface is what we call the mind. There the tempests from outside come, storms arrive, and they agitate you.

Sorrow is borrowed. Bliss is one’s own.

If one wants to be blissful, he can be so even alone. If one wants to be miserable, he needs the other. Have you ever discovered that without the other a person cannot be miserable? The “other” is essential for misery.

Search out your sufferings. You will find: all sufferings are connected to the other. There is no suffering that is not connected to someone else. Someone deceived you; someone abused you; someone did not conform to your mind; someone behaved in a way you did not expect—every suffering is tied to the other. And bliss has nothing to do with the other. Bliss is self-sprung. That is why a person sitting in a Himalayan cave can be blissful. If you want to be miserable, you must come into the marketplace. Sitting there, you cannot be miserable.

So it is not without reason that people run to the forests. It is because “if there is no bamboo, there will be no flute.” Leave the other and run away. If there is no other, what suffering can there be!

But I say to you: if you run away from others, perhaps you will not be miserable; that is possible—but you may not be blissful either. Because having fled from the other, the fear of the other remains. And the one you fled from—his waves will keep circling in the mind. The one you left behind will still stand within you.

So it often happens to the one who has fled to the forest:

“Today there is no one far, no one near,
yet who knows why the mind is sad today?
Today even the emptiness does not speak to me,
no leaf on the pipal trembles;
the wind seems halted, the water tired,
the night is timid, the moon grave;
the earth hushes, the whole sky is dumb—
yet who knows why the mind is sad today?

This evening no bud has fallen,
no alley has lain in darkness;
no traveler lost his way today,
no pied-cuckoo cried for the beloved;
there is no autumn today, nor spring—
yet who knows why the mind is sad today?

No song has remained half today,
no wounding word has anyone spoken;
no friend met and parted today,
no dream joined and broke today;
there is no pain today, no thirst—
yet who knows why the mind is sad today?”

So you may not remain miserable if you flee the world—you will become melancholy.

The question is not one of running away from the world; that is negative. The creative thing is to invite the divine into yourself. Instead of going to the caves of the Himalayas, seat the caves of the Himalayas in your heart. Instead of seeking the peace and coolness of the Himalayas outside, invite that Himalayan peace and coolness within you. Let it dwell within. If the Himalayas settle inside you, then you may live in the bazaar, in business, in the crowd—nothing will make a difference.

Bliss is certainly raining, but it is so new that it does not fit with anything you know. So, all right—assume it is imagination. Even then, accept it. What is wrong with imagination—especially when it is the imagination of bliss! Perhaps these are bliss’s footsteps, which for now you hear as a distant tread; they will slowly come near. What is dream today may become truth tomorrow. But the first requirement on the path to truth is that you accept it, receive it. Only then will the seed be sown within you. Only then will you change.

But our old understanding leads us into wrong interpretations.

I have heard: the beloved kept saying to Mulla Nasruddin, “Tell Daddy that you will marry me.” But Mulla stayed silent—so silent as if he could not hear, or could not speak, as if he were mute; deaf or dumb. At last the beloved flared up and said, “Say it—will you tell Daddy, you fool!” At this Mulla became very happy and said, “I will, certainly I will.” “What will you tell him?” the beloved asked, delighted. “Fool,” said Mulla.

One’s own interpretations, one’s own choices.

Bliss is raining, yet you are not accepting it; rather, you are creating a new worry—that perhaps it is imagination! You are raising doubt. In the smoke of doubt it will be lost. If the cloud of doubt gathers thick, this ray of light will no longer be seen. When the sun gets covered by clouds... and the moon of bliss that has arisen within you is still very small; it will be hidden in the clouds of doubt. Trust.

And what is the harm? What could be lost by trusting bliss? Do not trust sorrow. In trusting sorrow something is always lost.

But you are always ready to trust sorrow, and never ready to trust bliss!

This happens here every day. This question is not only yours, it is many people’s.

Every day someone comes and says, “A great peace is coming—but I suspect whether it is true!” Someone else says, “A great ecstasy is spreading—but I suspect I may be deceiving myself!”

You have deceived yourself so many times that you feel you might deceive yourself with this too. But I want to tell you: no one has ever been able to give himself the illusion of bliss. It is impossible.

There can be no illusion of bliss. Because the very mind that creates illusions contains no bliss. The mind that creates illusions only invents new sufferings. Illusion is a mechanism for finding new ways to suffer.

Therefore, don’t be afraid. Do not be frightened. Do not let the old mind come in between. A new guest has arrived—embrace him. Bring him within. Seat him upon the throne of your heart.

The second question is also a little connected with the first, so let us take it along with it.

Perhaps for that very reason.
When there is a reason for sadness, one can at least understand: well, there is a cause; at least there is a cause, so I am sad. There is a pretext. No one will call you mad. You can say: my wife died, my son went to jail, my shop collapsed, I went bankrupt.
Then there is logic to your sadness. With logic, you feel safe. You can say it is perfectly natural to be sad. What else can I do? If your wife died, you too would be sad. If your business went bankrupt, you too would cry. So it isn’t only me who weeps.
You can give reasons for your tears. The greatest sadness is when there is no reason at all. Then it becomes absurd. You cannot even say why you are sad. You cannot defend your sadness. You cannot gather arguments for it. You become utterly helpless. This, too, happens.
There are several reasons for such a state. One: there may be no cause today, but if you have been sad again and again throughout life, then sadness has become your habit. It often happens that an angry person develops a habit of anger. Then even if there is no cause for anger, he still has to be angry. He cannot live without it; he will find some way.
You all know people who keep looking for an excuse to be angry. The anger is inside. If they erupt without a cause, they’ll be thought mad. So they must find a cause—any cause! When you look back, you discover: the cause was not sufficient—not enough for so much anger. There was no proportion between the cause and the anger. You too regret later that the matter was so small.
Sometimes someone comes to me and says, “I flew into a rage; I beat my wife, I beat my child—though there was no reason for such anger.”
When I ask the cause, he says, “Don’t ask about the cause. It was petty, trivial, meaningless; out of nothing a whole argument arose.”
Habit... If you have been angry day after day, today too you will have to look for anger. Anger also creates a craving. As one who smokes a cigarette, a hookah, a cheroot, drinks alcohol—there is a craving. A moment comes when he is compelled to drink. Though it is utterly pointless—drawing smoke in, pushing it out, of no real use—the habit has formed; it will not leave.
In the same way, anger becomes a habit; so does being sad. A mood becomes fixed, a permanent state.
Sometimes to become sad can be forgiven. There are a thousand obstacles in life. Man is weak; man has limits. It is understandable: sometimes sadness comes. Someone dies—if you do not feel sad, what else will you do? One in whom you had great trust betrays you—sadness is natural. The one with whom you thought you would live all your life suddenly departs midway—sadness is natural. It can be forgiven.
Transient moods can be forgiven. But slowly what is momentary turns into a permanent mood. A person begins to remain sad. Sadness becomes natural to him. It is very hard to see him laugh. Even when he laughs, sadness trickles through his laughter.
Something like this must have happened. You do not see a cause for your sadness. This can only mean that the sadnesses of your past have accumulated. Today they have formed a heap. No single cause is visible. Drop by drop, the pitcher has filled. You poured in only a drop at a time—so how has the pitcher filled? The fullness of the pitcher shows no cause. But causes must have been there, because in this world nothing is without a cause—even if it is not apparent.

This heart is now ruined—
so ruined that, let alone a leaf of joy,
there isn’t even a thorn of sorrow in it.
Neither the festival of spring,
nor the mourning of autumn.
This heart is now ruined, but it was not always ruined.
Here once bloomed the flowers of longing;
here too pricked the thorns of the quest.
This heart is now ruined, yet it was not forever indifferent
to spring and autumn.
I am that lover of color and fragrance who once
spent his own blood in the service of spring.
This heart is now ruined.

Now this heart has gone very bad—become a ruin, sorrowful, a cremation ground.
So ruined that, not to speak of a leaf of happiness,
there isn’t even a thorn of sorrow in it—so empty has it become.
Even if there is sorrow, one is not so desolate; at least there is something to do, something to keep one occupied; there is an entanglement, some remedy—something to stay busy with and forget oneself for a while. Sometimes a moment comes when no cause for sadness is visible. No glimpse of happiness appears, no door to joy opens, no cause of sorrow is seen. One remains hanging in between—neither of this shore nor that.

Neither the festival of spring,
nor the mourning of autumn.
This heart is now ruined, but it was not always ruined.
Here once bloomed the flowers of desire,
and here too pricked the thorns of seeking.
This heart is now ruined, but it was not always indifferent to spring and autumn.
I am that lover of color and fragrance who once poured his own blood out for the sake of spring.

You will have to look into the past. You are sad today, so you must look back. Your past has condensed your sadness. Not only pitchers—oceans too fill drop by drop. Your past has been darkening your night. All the stars have hidden. Today no cause is visible, but causes must lie behind. Your frustrated desires—your springs turning into autumns; your love turning into hate; friends becoming enemies—your hopes all washed away.
But this is not only yours; it isn’t just the concern of the one who has asked—it is everyone’s. Sooner or later, such sadness comes to all. Even Alexanders feel it. Those who gain everything feel it; those who lose feel it; the winners feel it too. Because on winning, one discovers there was no substance in the victory. The effort was useless. The running about, the hustle and bustle—vain. Having gained it all, one sees that nothing has truly come into one’s hands—hands are empty! Not only the hands, the heart is empty too. The whole life has been lost in a desert like this. Then a sadness encircles one.
The same kind of sadness has surrounded you. In this sadness, first, is your past. It is not necessary to find a single cause. The accumulated conditioning of your whole past has made you sad.

And second, within this sadness there is still a hidden hope for the future. Otherwise the sadness would break. This may be a little hard to grasp. When you see a person in despair, do not think he has given up hope. The very meaning of despair is that hope is still alive. Even though life has shattered all the means of hope, hope still persists somewhere; otherwise, without hope how could you be in despair? The greater the hope, the greater the despair—exactly in that proportion. If a person’s hopes have truly all dropped, then despair also cannot be; then what despair!

We call that person a sannyasin who has stopped hoping altogether. And when hoping is dropped, its shadow—despair—also takes leave.

Ordinary logic says that when hope breaks, a person becomes despairing. But that is not true. The experience of life says something else. If hope truly breaks—if not even a single thread remains, unbroken, uninterrupted—you will find that despair goes with it.

You say, “The mind is sad; no cause is visible.”
Then there is still in your mind a hope of attaining happiness. Still you want to make something of yourself in this world, to accomplish something. Though life says, “It will not happen.” You have tried so many times. Every house you built fell. Every plan you laid failed. Every boat you rowed—you saw it sink.

The experience of your whole life, of your entire past, says: Nothing can come of it. But the seed of craving hidden in your heart whispers: Who knows—try this time, and it may happen! You have lost ninety-nine times, but on the hundredth a man may win.

Somewhere desire is still stirring. It must be buried very deep, because a heap of past experiences has piled up, a heap of sadness. But in the ashes of that sadness, somewhere the ember of desire still glows.

When night comes the wounded heart often thinks:
Who will gather in my eyes, becoming tears?
From whose tresses’ little window will a ray break forth?
When will these heavy chains snap?
Who knows how long before I’m freed from this night of loneliness?
Perhaps tonight, too, I will not find sleep.
Whose footfall is it, that my heartbeat quickens?
Who is the sympathizer in this wilderness of loneliness?
Who is the beloved in this dark chamber of the night?
Whose figure stands in the idol-house of imagination?
Beloved, is it you—or just a soothing of my feeling?
Is it a soft breeze, a footfall, or is it silence?
Yes, it is the same longing—and the same despondency.

When night comes, the heart that weeps begins to think; the defeated heart begins to kindle trust again; the tired, worn-out heart begins to dream again. It thinks: Morning will come; tomorrow we will set out once more.

Every evening, after the day’s defeats, you begin to reassemble yourself, to gather yourself again. The day breaks you; by night you patch yourself together; in the morning you rise and go to the marketplace again.

When night comes the wounded heart often thinks:
Who will gather in my eyes, becoming tears?
From whose tresses’ little window will a ray break forth?

And if in the day the lover could not be found, the beloved was not found, what you desired did not come to pass—then a person thinks: At least in dreams it will happen.

Who will gather in my eyes, becoming tears?
From whose tresses’ little window will a ray break forth?
When will these heavy chains snap?
Who knows how long before I’m freed from this night of loneliness?

Every defeated, exhausted person begins to think: When will this heavy chain of sorrow break? And how long will this solitary night remain solitary? When will the dear one be found? When will union with the beloved happen?

And when you fill yourself with such longings, dreams begin to rise in the mind.

Perhaps tonight, too, I will not find sleep.
Whose footfall is it, that my heartbeat quickens?

There is no footfall. No one has come, and no one will come. No one ever comes. You are alone. Your aloneness is absolute. The search for the other is futile. The other neither is found nor can be found.

Whatever can be found is within you. If you find yourself, you have found everything.

Whose footfall is it, that my heartbeat quickens?
It is not that the heartbeat quickens because of someone’s footfall. The heartbeat quickens, and then you begin to imagine a footfall—perhaps someone is coming. A hope of meeting arises.

Who is the sympathizer in this wilderness of loneliness?
Who is the beloved in this dark chamber of the night?
Who is the dear one coming in this black night? … There is only darkness—no dear one.

But sometimes, when you are sunk in waiting, even the sound of a traveler’s feet seems to you: perhaps the beloved has come! A gust of wind shakes the door; you think: perhaps someone patted it, someone knocked! Dry leaves skitter across the road, and in their rustling you startle awake, thinking the lover has arrived!

Waiting—waiting thick with desire, brimful of expectations—starts weaving big fantasies, big longings.

Who is the beloved in this dark chamber of the night?
Whose figure stands in the idol-house of imagination?
Beloved, is it you—or just a soothing of my feeling?
Are you there—or is this only a device to lull the mind?

Is it a soft breeze, a footfall, or is it silence?
What is it? A soft breeze? The sound of your steps? Is it the hint of your coming—or only the hush of the night, the silence of the night?

Yes, it is the same longing—and the same despondency. The same hope in the mind, and then the same sadness. The same yearning and the same despair.

Hope and despair walk together—they are two sides of the same coin, two wings of the same bird. If one wing falls, the other is useless.

If you are sad, then surely somewhere within you the ember of hope still lies buried. You still think something can be had from this life. Experience says: it cannot be had; but again and again desire triumphs over experience.

The past keeps you sad, and about the future you still think: perhaps… perhaps it may happen! The impossible also happens! Miracles happen too.

Let this hope go.

In this world no miracle happens. In this world no final victory is ever gained. Defeat here is our lot. Frustration here is our destiny. The losers lose, and those who win—also lose. The unsuccessful are of course unsuccessful; the successful are also unsuccessful. Whatever we do in this world is no more than signatures made upon water; they cannot even quite form before they dissolve.

Bid farewell to hope completely. And you will suddenly find: with that farewell, sadness too has gone, despair too has gone. And you will find: a peace begins to descend; the clamor subsides; the wish for the other is no more. In that very moment your inner journey begins. To come within, all hope and despair must drop; otherwise, how will the eyes turn inward? How will the ears hear within?

So long as your mind says, “Go outward, go somewhere; perhaps not here, but there you’ll find a kingdom; perhaps not here, but there you’ll find happiness,” you will keep wandering.

This is all the meaning of the world: wandering outward. And this is all the meaning of meditation: the outward wandering has ceased; you have come within; you have taken your seat in your own home, and rested. In that rest you will find bliss.

First thing: whether you ask or not, answers are being given. I am giving the answers anyway. If you are patient and do not ask, the answer will still come. If you are impatient and ask, the answer will still come.

And the amusing thing is that when you ask a question, the answer I give may reach others, but it hardly reaches you. For the mind of the questioner is full of tension: “The answer to my question is being given!” That itself becomes the obstacle. He remains afraid, flustered—what will I say? Will I hurt? Will I shake him up? Will I awaken?—what will I do? Will my answer come like a flower, or will it come like a stone?

The one who asks becomes restless, filled with tension. “His” answer is being given! And often he misses. Others listen in peace. They have no personal stake. Their question is the same anyway. What differences are there in people’s questions? The problems are the same. The questions are the same. Where are the big differences between one person and another? Even if there are differences, at most they are differences of proportion. One has more anger; another more sex; another more greed; another more attachment. Merely proportional differences, differences of quantity. Essentially the questions are the very same, because human beings are alike. Ignorance is alike. The darkness is alike. The wandering is alike.

And how could the answers be different! The answer is one as well. There may be many questions; the answer is one. In all answers there is a single longing: that you turn back within; come into your own being. See yourself. Recognize yourself.

This has been asked by Sushma: “Many times I think of asking you something, of saying something to you. Questions arise, they even take shape; then I think: should I ask this, should I ask that? Should I ask today, should I ask tomorrow? Should I ask with my eyes, or should I send a blank sheet of paper?”
Most likely the time passes in just this. Do not worry. The answer will come anyway. Even if you do not ask, it will come. I am already giving the answers. Someone else will ask. By some pretext the answer will arrive.

But it is also necessary to understand that this state of mind—unable even to decide whether to ask or not to ask—is not auspicious. If you are to ask, then ask. If you are not to ask, then do not ask. But do not support this wavering state of mind. The mind wavers in everything; it wavers even over the smallest things.

Now what is the harm if you simply go ahead and ask? What is there to think so much about? Why waste so much time thinking? In this way a wrong habit of the mind gets support, gets companionship. Then slowly the mind becomes incapable of deciding anything at all. In every matter alternatives stand up: should I do this, should I do that!
Sushma has asked: she keeps facing choices—today, should I wear this sari or that sari? Today, should I cook this or that? Such small choices keep arising, and a lot of time gets wasted in them.
Simplify life. And if you want to simplify, don’t keep propping up the mind’s options. As the mind’s choices gradually drop, the state of choicelessness comes nearer. These are all just options: Should I do this, should I do that? Whatever feels right to do, do it—then don’t dither over it any further.

And this is only about a question. There’s no harm if you ask; nothing is lost if you don’t. If you feel like asking, ask; if not, don’t. But don’t support this wavering mind. Otherwise it becomes a fixed habit of the mind.

People come to me and say: should we take sannyas or not? I tell them: whatever I say, your mind will think, should we follow him or not? That’s the mind—raising alternatives. It will still create options: take it today, or take it tomorrow?

Move with the feeling that arises today; go into it.

I want to give you a single maxim: if it harms no one, just do it. What’s there to think about? If it’s good, do it immediately. If it’s not good, postpone it till tomorrow. Put sin off till tomorrow; do virtue today.

But man’s head is upside down. If it’s sin, he does it right now; if it’s virtue, then tomorrow—he thinks, we’ll do it tomorrow, or the day after. If someone abuses you, you don’t wonder whether to reply or not, whether to reply today or tomorrow—you retort at once. You don’t miss a single moment.

We show great promptness in doing the wrong. Ninety-nine percent of what’s wrong in the world would end if we just paused a little.

Dale Carnegie wrote in a memoir that he once received a letter. He had given a radio talk on Lincoln and had made an error in a date. A woman devoted to Lincoln wrote to him, showering abuse: If you don’t even know the dates, how did you dare to give a talk on the radio? First get your dates right. Even little children know this. You don’t know even that! You should apologize—publicly. This is an insult to Lincoln.

Reading it, Carnegie too got angry—his blood boiled. He wrote a reply just as venomous. But it was night, and the servant had gone, so he thought: I’ll mail it in the morning. He left the letter on the table and went to sleep, feeling relieved after venting. In the morning, as he was putting it in the envelope, he read it again. It felt excessive. The woman was right—he had made a mistake. Instead of apologizing, he was getting angry!

He set that letter aside and wrote a second. While writing it, it struck him: If I had mailed the first one last night, if the servant hadn’t left, then…? What a difference the morning makes! He compared the two—heaven and earth apart. So he thought: I won’t mail this second one yet either. There’s no hurry. I’ll look at it again in the evening.

In the evening he looked again and wrote a third letter. Now the difference was even greater. Then he felt: what’s the rush? That woman isn’t going mad waiting for my reply. He waited seven days. Every morning he would read and revise; every evening, read and revise. On the seventh day, when he was sure nothing remained to change, the letter had completely transformed—from filled with hate and poison to filled with friendliness and love.

In that letter he wrote: I am grateful. And if you ever come to my town, please stay at my home. I’ll be happy to meet you. My knowledge will grow. I don’t know much about Lincoln, and I want to know more. And I apologize for the mistake.

Six months later, the woman came to his town. They had been corresponding in the meantime. She stayed at his house. And you’ll be amazed at what happened—she became his wife! That’s how he fell in love. Had that first letter gone, all possibilities between two people would have ended.

When you’re about to do something bad, pause a little. Do it tomorrow, or the day after. What’s the hurry!

When Gurdjieff’s grandfather died, he told nine-year-old Gurdjieff: I have only one request and one instruction for you; this is my will. I have nothing else to give, but when my father died he gave me this, and it brought me great ease and joy in life. You too remember it. You are young—remember it well, so you don’t forget.

Gurdjieff remembered it. The grandfather said only this: if ever anger arises, whoever you’re angry with, just say to him, “I will come and answer you after twenty-four hours.” Then think for twenty-four hours, and only then reply—however you wish.

Gurdjieff wrote that this one thing revolutionized his life. Because after twenty-four hours, it never felt like replying. Either it seemed the man was right, so he went and apologized; or it seemed he had spoken untruth, and then what need is there to answer a lie? In twenty-four hours, even that need disappeared.

If it’s good, do it immediately. If it harms no one, there’s no need to think for even a moment.

So if you want to ask a question, just ask. No one will be harmed; someone may benefit. Your question might give someone an answer. Just as you receive answers from others’ questions, someone may receive an answer from yours. Why be stingy? Ask.

“Should I ask this, or that? Should I ask today or tomorrow?”

There is no barrier. Ask this and ask that; ask today and ask tomorrow. It’s not as if asking today means you cannot ask tomorrow; or if you ask this, you cannot ask that. The freedom you have to ask—perhaps no one else has. All your questions are welcome. If you want to ask, ask. If you want to say something, say it.

Between you and me there is a dialogue going on. It is not a debate. So there is nothing to worry about.
You ask out of curiosity, out of mumuksha—the yearning for liberation. Whenever I see that someone has asked with a mind to argue, I do not answer at all, because I have no taste for disputation.
When I see that someone has asked out of knowledge—that knowledge has gone to their head—when a question is coming from “knowledge,” I do not answer. They already have knowledge; what need do they have of an answer? They already have the answer within themselves.
When someone asks in such a way that they already know, I do not answer. But whenever someone asks in a way that shows they do not know—there is eagerness to know, a thirst—then whatever the question, I certainly answer. If I do not answer today, I will answer tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. Because I wait for the right moment. Whenever the right moment comes, your question will receive its answer.

Ask, then leave it to me—and do not hurry. Some people ask, and from the very next day they start looking out for it. Then they cannot hear anything else. They remain anxious about their own question: “Our question has still not been answered!”

There is a sannyasin, Mukta. She has come from Nairobi. She asks a lot. And I do not answer her. So now she has started writing letters: “You answer everyone else; why don’t you answer me? What about my question?”
Have patience. Either the time is not yet favorable, or your receptivity is not yet there; or you do not yet need the answer to what you have asked. When the need arises, it will come.
“Shall I ask you with my eyes, or should I send a blank page?”
Do anything at all. If you want to ask with your eyes, ask with your eyes. If you want to send a blank page, send a blank page. But do something. Don’t just sit there lost in thought. There are people who waste their whole lives in mere thinking.

I have heard of a mathematician who had to go to war in the Second World War. Everyone was being conscripted; he too had to go. He was a great thinker, a philosopher. The general who came to review the drill was astonished. The captain who was training him was exasperated, because when the command “Left turn!” was given, he just stood there. The whole regiment turned left; he remained where he was. The captain would ask, “Why are you standing?” He would say, “I am thinking whether to turn left or not. What is the benefit of turning? And soon enough you will say ‘Right turn!’—then they will turn right and be back where they were. I can just stand here; what harm is there in that?”

The captain was very troubled. But he was a famous philosopher and mathematician—well-known by name—so you couldn’t just bark at him. The captain told the general, “Come and see; what am I to do with this man? He refuses to obey even a simple order! He says, ‘I’ll think about it, and if it makes sense, I’ll obey.’ And I can see that after a while you will say ‘Right turn!’—so what’s the point? We might as well stand where we are; everyone will return to their places anyway. There’s no essence in all this turning left and right. Because of him, others also pay me less heed. They say, ‘Tell him!’ And he is a respected man; I don’t want to insult him.”

The general looked and said, “Do this: send him to the mess, to the kitchen to work. He is useless for the military. He won’t turn left or right. Tomorrow we’ll say, ‘Fire the gun,’ and he’ll say, ‘Why should I fire? What has he done to us? Why should we kill this man? He must have a wife and children. We aren’t going to do this.’ If even turning left and right is a hassle for him, where will he go from here!”

This is precisely why they make you turn left and right in the military. It is both a test and a training—to make you mechanical. Your thinking has to stop. “Left turn, right turn”—turning and turning, and then one day when they say “Fire!”, by then the person is ready—ready to kill and be killed. They make you turn so much that a kind of fire starts burning in the head. You say, “Fine, do whatever you want. Here’s a chance; don’t miss it.” Gradually intelligence and sensitivity wither. Then he fires the gun, drops the bomb.

The man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima was asked the next morning how he felt. He said, “I slept peacefully at night, because I obeyed orders.” A hundred thousand people died, and this man slept peacefully because the order was carried out. His intelligence had gone numb. Not once in the night did it occur to him: a hundred thousand people turned to ash because I dropped a bomb.

They suffered immeasurable pain. Hell itself is pale beside that agony. There were little children, helpless children. Children in the womb were burnt to ash. There were women who had harmed no one. They were civilians—Hiroshima was not a military camp; it was a town of ordinary people. Yet this man was at ease; he slept well, job done, order fulfilled.

But the other man sitting beside him—the one whose job was to give the signal for when to drop the bomb—he could not sleep the whole night. Not just that night; he couldn’t sleep for three months. Those flames he saw rising below, those screams he heard, that inferno—that dance of death! He resigned from his job. The wound in his heart was so deep. And he had not even known that the order he was giving was for an atom bomb. He had always been there to give the drop signal. He thought it was an ordinary bomb. He knew nothing of what it was. He only had to signal: “This is the target, drop the bomb now.”

He did not know whether it was an ordinary bomb or an atom bomb. Only the next day did he learn what a monstrous event had occurred, and that his hand was in it too. He was greatly distressed. He resigned, and then went from village to village in America campaigning against the atomic bomb—calling for a ban. His words had force, because he had seen Hiroshima with his own eyes—the flames rising below, the screams, that hellish scene. People listened to him—closely, earnestly. The government grew a little afraid. They appointed a commission of twenty psychologists. The commission declared the man insane and had him confined to an asylum.

What a strange state of affairs! The first man, who killed a hundred thousand and then slept peacefully because he had obeyed orders—that one seems mad. The second man is not mad, yet the government had him declared insane.

In this world, if you have a heart, you will be taken for mad. If you have sensitivity, you will be judged mad. This world is strange indeed. The mad sit as politicians! Gangs of madmen have pitched their tents in the capitals!

So that philosopher would not heed “Left turn, right turn.” He said, “I will think and then act. How can one act without thinking!”

They sent him to the kitchen. The general came after him and said, “Do one small job. Do you see these peas? Separate the big ones to one side and the small ones to the other. Make two piles.”

Two hours later he returned and found the man sitting with his head in his hands. The peas were still in one heap. The general asked, “What are you doing? You haven’t even started yet. Is the job very difficult?”

He said, “Very difficult. Some are big, some are small, and some are medium. And where should I put the medium ones—this side or that side?”

Sushma’s question is just like that: “Shall I ask with my eyes, or shall I send a blank page? Shall I ask this, or shall I ask that? Shall I ask today, or shall I ask tomorrow?”

If no one is harmed, there is no need to delay. And if someone may be harmed, delay as much as you can. If it is a matter of dropping a bomb, think and think again whether to drop it or not. But if it is only a matter of sorting peas, what does it matter if one or two medium ones end up here or there?

When an act is innocent, there is no need to delay. Bringing thinking into an innocent act only creates delay. Bring thinking into a harmful act. Before doing the harmful, think deeply—and you will be freed of wrongdoing, because you will never be able to do it. But if you ponder too much before doing a virtuous act, you will miss the virtue; you will never do it.

Shall I raise my dewy lashes or lower them!
In these moonbeams, whose invitation is being offered?
Who is it that, even from afar, still deceives someone?
Such a longing has arisen for an unreceived boon—
Shall I call you with love, or shall I adorn you?
Shall I raise my dewy lashes or lower them!

Dreams nurtured in imagination make the heart restless,
Lovely clouds smile again and again, tearing the dark of the sky,
A faded memory stirs today once more—
Shall I extinguish the lamp of hope, or light it?
Shall I raise my dewy lashes or lower them!

I do not know myself, yet I want to tell you:
Dawn’s drowsy eyelids behold a lovely dream,
Usha fills her parting with vermilion and goes to charm the sun—
Shall I tell every word of the dream, or hide it?
Shall I raise my dewy lashes or lower them!

No—don’t remain entangled in such deliberations, Sushma. These moments you have spent with me are precious. Do not waste them in futile alternatives. Be with me in a state of choicelessness.

And there is only one way to be choiceless: when it is auspicious, do not delay in doing it.

End the mind’s wavering. The day the wavering ends, the mind itself ends—because mind means wavering.

You have seen waves rise on the sea—whirlwinds, storms. Then the waves vanish; it is calm. If someone asks you, “Where is the storm now?” what will you say? Will you say, “The storm has become calm”? That would not be right. The storm is not—how can it be calm? It was; now it is not.

So it is with the mind: wavering, ripples, this and that, alternatives upon alternatives, a thousand paths—and the person is stuck, trembling: “Shall I do this, shall I do that?” That is mind. The day you find that the wavering about doing is gone, that very day the mind is gone. Then there is only the ocean—waveless.

Understand it this way: “mind” is the name of your wavering state; “soul” is the name of your tranquil state. You are the same. When you waver, you become mind. When the wavering disappears, you become soul.

Soul and mind are two states of the same energy.

Begin anywhere—begin. The Divine is everywhere. Wherever you begin, it begins there. Don’t get entangled in “Where should I start?” For God is like a circle. That is why there are so many religions in the world—because there can be so many beginnings. There are three hundred religions. There could be three thousand, three hundred thousand, even thirty million. In truth, there can be as many religions as there are people, because each person’s beginning will be a little different—each person is a little different.

Start anywhere. Don’t give too much value to this question. Give value to beginning. Begin. And remember, whenever anyone begins, mistakes happen! “Where should I start?”—that is a very mathematical question. The fear in it is that you might start wrongly, that you might make a mistake. Where should I start!

If a child, before walking, were to ask where to start, how to start, what if I fall, what if I bruise my knees—then the child would never walk. He has to start. He has to take all the risks. In spite of all fear, he has to begin. The day a child first stands up, it seems impossible that he will ever walk. Till yesterday he was crawling, and today he suddenly stands.

How happy the mother is when the child stands! And yet a dangerous day has arrived. Now he will fall. Now he will skin his knees. Now there will be blood. He will tumble down steps. The dangers begin now. As long as he crawled, there was less danger, more safety. But how long will you remain imprisoned in safety?

The child will have to walk. He will have to take risks; otherwise he will remain lame. And he will fall many times...

When a child first begins to speak, he lisps; no one becomes master of language at once—who ever has? He will lisp. There will be errors. He will say one thing while intending another; he will want to say something, and something else will come out. But children dare to lisp. Therefore one day they are able to speak. Because they dare to lisp, one day Kalidasa and Shakespeare are born. Because they attempt to lisp, one day a Buddha and a Christ can be born.

So when you begin, it will be like lisping. Do not expect perfection. You were crawling; now you have stood up—it is risky. Mistakes are bound to happen. They will happen. The one who wants to avoid mistakes forever will never be able to walk, never be able to speak—never be able to live.

It often happens that those who try to avoid mistakes are deprived of life’s riches. There is only one real mistake in the world, and that mistake is the excessive effort to avoid mistakes.

You ask: “When I listen to you, thoughts of seeking the Lord arise. But I don’t understand where to begin!”

Begin anywhere. Begin from a mosque, a temple, a gurdwara; begin with an image. Begin with the Quran, the Gita, the Vedas, the Puranas—anywhere. Begin with worship of a river, a mountain, a stone. But begin. If you want to take my advice, I would say: begin with nature. For God is hidden in nature. Look at the trees; look at the flowers; look at the moon and the stars; look at rivers and oceans. God is hidden in all these. Seek here.

So take the first step toward God through nature. If He becomes visible in nature, then He will begin to appear everywhere.

The famous English poet Tennyson said... He saw a flower blooming, blooming in a wondrous way. In a stone wall there was a small crack between the stones, and out of it the flower had emerged. Tennyson stood there, startled, and wrote in his diary: If I could understand this one flower fully, I would understand the entire existence—and all the Divine play. Everything is hidden in one flower. In one flower!

At dusk I have come again to the garden
Drawn by this treasury of color and fragrance
Which once bestowed freshness upon the soul
And the wealth of rapture and ecstasy
Gave the air an everlasting charm
Opened new angles of longing for beauty to the eyes
Refined the heart’s emotions
And taught a love for the eternal tradition
Here are lilac, violet-blue, pink, flame-colored—
All kinds of flowers
Enter the green beds and the jasmine’s fragrance
Is abundant, abundant
Somewhere the motia and chameli spread a heart-soothing scent
Among the rose plots lies a provision
To ease the eyes and the heart
Here is the dhak tree
From whose flowers the Mughals drew the colors for their paintings
By the charm of that very dhak hue
Basawan and Daswanth won applause in the Emperor’s court
Here too is an old tree
Who, wearied by life’s thorn-thickets, became a Gautam
Absorbed in knowing
Light-footed, the scented breezes arrive, cheerful and glad
They linger to comment on the throng of flowers and colors

At dusk I have come again to the garden.
From evening itself, from twilight itself, I have come to the garden.

Drawn by this treasury of color and fragrance—
This treasure of color and scent has pulled me here.

Which once bestowed freshness upon the soul
And the wealth of rapture and ecstasy—
For from this, now and then, a drunkenness has arisen in life; from this, now and then, the taste of joy has come; from this, now and then, there has been a glimpse of the soul.

Which once bestowed freshness upon the soul
And the wealth of rapture and ecstasy—
That is why, sometimes while watching the ocean, a glimmer of meditation comes. Sometimes, gazing at the quiet greenery of the Himalayas, something green arises within you. Sometimes, watching the petals of a rose unfold, something within you unfolds.

We are part of this nature. We too are a plant. Our roots are here as well. This earth belongs to us as much as it belongs to the trees. Just as the trees are born of the earth, we too are born of it. The same water that waves in the ocean waves within us. The same greenness that is in the trees is our life too.

Which once bestowed freshness upon the soul
And the wealth of rapture and ecstasy—
Gave the air an everlasting charm—
And you see this beauty—how it has given eternity to nature. Trees come and go—the greenness remains; the greenness is immortal. Flowers come and go—the flower-garden remains; the garden is immortal. Today there is one plant, tomorrow another, the day after a third—but all three are parts of one life. One continuum. One unbroken thread.

Gave the air an everlasting charm—
Opened new angles of longing for beauty to the eyes—
And whoever has seen nature is given new angles, new visions, new philosophies of seeing.

Opened new angles of longing for beauty to the eyes—
One receives a new eye to assay beauty, new touchstones.

Refined the heart’s emotions—
And through this very nature our feelings become civilized. Those unfamiliar with nature have uncultured feelings. The one who has never watched a flower bloom is not yet fully human. The one who has never sat quietly and listened to the songs of birds, who has heard only the voices of people, is not fully human. And the one who has never conversed with the moon and stars of the night is not a complete human being; he is very incomplete.

Some years ago in London a survey was done—of London’s children. They were asked a few questions. When I saw the results, my heart filled with tears. A million children of London said they had never seen a cow, never seen fields.

Roads paved with cement do not tell the story of life; they tell the story of death. The sky-touching buildings of concrete—where trees have taken leave, from there God has also taken leave.

Machines and man-made things—how will they give you news of God? Man-made things give you news of man. There are cars, trains, airplanes, huge factories, tall chimneys belching smoke, high-rise buildings, broad flat concrete roads—where will you seek God in this? If doubts about God begin to arise in relation to all this, what wonder!

If you want to seek God, seek where things grow. The largest building does not grow by itself; there is no life in it. The longest road does not grow by itself; there is no life in it. More is hidden in a seed than in London, New York, or Bombay—because a seed grows. Life is hidden in the seed, and God is hidden in life.

Refined the heart’s emotions—
And the person who has seen only man-made things will become hard. The one who has seen the delicate things made by God will become civilized in feeling.

Refined the heart’s emotions—
Taught a love for the eternal tradition—
And the one who has seen nature will be able to love the eternal, because he will see: everything here is eternal. Many roses have bloomed and gone, but the rose remains. It makes no difference—one flower goes, another fills its place. God’s creation is infinite.

Here are lilac, violet-blue, pink, flame-colored—
All kinds of flowers—
And when you look upon nature, you will understand: how many kinds of flowers there are! How many colors, how many forms! How utterly unique! Roses here, marigolds there, lotus, champa, jasmine—each so different! And the same One dwells in all. The same One’s fragrance pervades all.

So too, people are different from one another. Their prayers will differ; their feelings will differ.

When you look at nature, you will see unity in diversity. And the one who sees unity in diversity perceives the innermost of man.

Here are lilac, violet-blue, pink, flame-colored—
All kinds of flowers—
Enter the green beds and the jasmine’s fragrance—
And if you go a little deeper within, the scent of jasmine, the jasmine’s fragrance!

Abundant, abundant—
And the nearer you go, the more it increases.

Abundant, abundant—
Somewhere the motia and chameli spread a heart-soothing scent—
Somewhere the scent of motia and chameli—bliss-giving fragrance!

Among the rose plots lies a provision to ease the eyes and the heart—
And in every flower, if you have the eye to see, there is the power to take away your sorrows; the power to take away your restlessness.

Among the rose plots lies a provision to ease the eyes and the heart—
A mystery that satisfies the eye and the heart is spread all around like an enchantment.

Here is the dhak tree
From whose flowers the Mughals drew the colors for their paintings—
Here is the tree called dhak, whose colors you will see in Mughal painting.

By the charm of that very dhak hue
Basawan and Daswanth won applause in the Emperor’s court—
These were two painters in Akbar’s time—Basawan and Daswanth. With the colors of the dhak they painted, and won great applause, great honor.

Here too is an old tree—
Here too is an old tree.

Here too is an old tree
Who, wearied by life’s thorn-thickets, became a Gautam—
Who, greatly troubled by life’s griefs, pains, and thorns, became a Gautam.

Here too is an old tree
Who, wearied by life’s thorn-thickets, became a Gautam
Absorbed in knowing—
Who sits in his meditation. Who has become quiet. Who has closed his outer eyes and dived within.

Here too is an old tree
Who, wearied by life’s thorn-thickets, became a Gautam
Absorbed in knowing
Light-footed, the scented breezes arrive, cheerful and glad
They comment upon the throng of flowers and colors—
And with gentle steps the fragrant breeze arrives, a happy breeze. And the breeze is reflecting upon the colors of the flowers. It lingers a moment with each flower, looks, savors; moves on, considers.

Go to nature.

You ask: “Where should I begin?”
I say: begin with nature. Begin to immerse yourself in nature. Find at least an hour that takes you away from people, into another language, another world.

Man has become overfilled with man. One needs relief from that.

Open a little door. Nature is the best place from which a path can be made. And when the capacity to see nature awakens in you, you will suddenly find—God is not far; He is hidden right here. All this melody and color is His. Behind all this is His hand; behind all this is the heartbeat of His life. His heart is beating.

If you remain only among people, entangled only with people, you will go on missing. Forget people—for a while, set them aside.

I am not telling you to run away to the forest forever. I am not telling you to belong to trees and plants forever. That too would be a mistake. Because when understanding dawns, you will find: man too is His expression—the greatest of His expressions is man. Nothing has blossomed in flowers compared to what has blossomed in man: consciousness.

But begin—from A B C. You may not yet be able to understand man. Begin—with lisping. Then you will also be able to understand this epic called “man.”

The day you glimpse the Divine in a flower, that day will you not see God in people’s eyes? What flower can compete with the eyes of people? The day you see God in flowers, that day will you not see God in the smile upon someone’s lips? What flower can compete with a human smile? Yes, flowers burst forth and their voices are there; but when someone laughs and a fountain of sparks showers from that laughter, what flower can compete with it?

Granted, trees are green, and granted, trees are very peaceful; but what can compete with man’s intoxication, with man’s life, with man’s exuberance, with man’s enthusiasm?

It is true that you may find an old tree who sits quietly within himself, silent, absorbed in meditation. But no tree can compete with Gautam Buddha—not even the tree under which Gautam Buddha became the Enlightened One.

Human consciousness is the ultimate, the final flower of existence. Therefore I am not saying flee from man forever. I am saying: if you want to know man, then for a little while free yourself from man; create a little distance; make friends with trees; with animals, plants, birds. And then one day, when you return to man—and the lessons you bring from birds, plants, and trees have refined your heart and your feelings; when, filled with a poetry, a fresh poetry, you look at man again—you will recognize that man is the image of God.

Begin with nature.

That is all for today.