Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #10

“Avadhut” is a very significant word. Its meanings are these:

“A” means: to be established in aksharatva—the imperishable; that which never fades, that which always is. The world is fleeting—the Imperishable is the Divine. Leave the momentary and seize the thread of the eternal. The one whose hand has caught the hem of the Eternal is an avadhut. That is the meaning of the “A.”

We are clutching at water-bubbles; before we can even hold them, they burst. We run after mirages. We are defeated again and again, yet rise again and race again. We learn nothing from our defeats. The delusion of the transient lies very deep upon us. The one who awakens from maya—from the illusion of the moment—is an avadhut. This is the first meaning.

“Va” means: one who chooses the Imperishable—does not merely talk about it. One who does not just think the deathless—lives it. Whose every breath is a choosing of the Imperishable. Who does not become a scholar, but becomes wise. Let it not be second-hand talk that “the Imperishable exists.” Let it be one’s own direct knowing, one’s self-experience.

People speak much of God; books are written about God. Yet, search the lives even of those who write large tomes about God and you will scarcely find a ray of the Divine. The doctrine of God is charming, and it affords many conveniences; there are ample means to propagate it. But experience? Experience is costly; theory is cheap.

Only one who is ready to erase himself can truly choose God. Kabir has said: “He who burns down his own house can walk with us.” The one prepared to reduce himself to ash—only he can choose Him. In that choosing, the renunciation of ego is inherent. Let go of yourself, and you will find Him. So the second meaning of avadhut is: do not merely speak of the Imperishable—let it suffuse every pore, every breath; let it become your very fragrance, the cadence of your life.

“Dhu” means: to see the world as dust—insubstantial, nothing. And let this not be a mere surface notion—not a stance that says outwardly, “It is dust,” while inwardly clutching dust. Let it be actual. Let it spread from circumference to center. Let it be absorbed into the very life of your life. Let this seeing be present while waking and while sleeping; in sitting and rising; in the temple and in the marketplace; at every moment. Let it become like your shadow, this knowing that the world is dust. Naturally, one who realizes the Divine as Truth will realize the world as dust. These two insights arise together; they are two faces of the same coin. To see the world as dust—that one is an avadhut. This is the third meaning.

And the fourth meaning is: tat tvam asi—“t” stands for tattvamasi. Not merely to think, “I have known God,” not merely to feel, “I live God,” not merely to affirm, “I am God,” but to know that everyone—each one—is God. To be able to say to each: You too are That.

Otherwise, even the experience of the Divine can become a prop for ego. If I say, “I am God, you are not,” that very claim shows I am not an avadhut. One who says, “I am God and the other is not,” has seen nothing; his eyes are blind; his ears are deaf. He has neither heard nor seen; he has set out on a journey of ego, using God as the crutch.

So the fourth meaning of avadhut is: tat tvam asi—thou too art That. And in this “thou,” remember, all is included: stones and mountains, trees, plants, birds, women and men—all are included. This “thou” embraces everything other than “me.”

To know “I am the Divine,” and at the same time to know that there is nothing other than the Divine—such a state of consciousness is called “avadhut.” It is a very lovely word.

Tradition has, not the devotees. And tradition is not religion. Tradition is the name for the footprints left in the dust where religion once passed. Where religion once moved, it left lines behind—those lines are called tradition.

You walk along a path; your footprints are left behind. Those footprints are not you. Far from it—your shoes, which made the prints, aren’t there either; they too moved on. Only empty marks remain in the dust; from those marks tradition is made. Tradition is made of footprints.

Religion is a living event, ever fresh. It is always in the present. Religion has no past and no future. Religion is now, here.

While Malukdas is alive, there is religion. When Malukdas is gone and people begin to worship his footprints, that is tradition.

Tradition is anti-religion. Religion can have no tradition, because religion and tradition are opposite phenomena. Tradition belongs to the dead; religion is forever alive. How can the living have a tradition?

Religion is ever-present; tradition belongs to that which once was present and has departed.

The difficulty is like this: a lamp is lit, and then the lamp goes out—and you go on worshipping the extinguished lamp. The lit lamp is Baba Malukdas; the extinguished lamp is tradition.

Now you go on worshipping an extinguished lamp.

Imagine that you saw Baba Malukdas dancing around a lit lamp. You cannot see the flame, because you are blind. You grope—your hand finds the lamp, but the flame cannot be grasped. The inner flame can be seen only with the inner eye—and your inner eye is closed, and this is a matter of inner light.

So you grope around to find what Malukdas is dancing around; what’s the matter here? The lamp is what you can hold. Then Malukdas goes, and you go on dancing around the lamp.

A drunk staggered home late at night. He ran into all kinds of trouble on the way—bumped into walls, into passersby, into buffaloes and bulls standing in the road. Again and again he lifted his lantern and said, What’s the matter? I’ve got a lantern with me! Then he fell into a gutter—lantern and all. Someone picked him up and carried him home.

Next morning he sits there; a hazy memory of the night returns. His head hurts, his legs hurt. He’s thinking, What happened? The lantern was in my hand—why did I keep bumping into things? Just then the tavern owner arrives and says, Here, take your lantern. You left it in the tavern last night—and you carried off my parrot’s cage. Where is my parrot’s cage?

Now a drunk—unconscious—if a parrot cage felt like a lantern, he took it. In his hand it must have felt lantern-like, so he walked off with it!

What you clutch in unconsciousness becomes tradition. What you know in awareness is religion.

Religion has no tradition. And there is no religion in tradition. That is why I do not call the Hindu religious; I do not call the Muslim religious; I do not call the Christian or the Jain religious. What has religion to do with these? These are parrot cages.

In Mahavira’s hand there was a lantern; in the Jain’s hand there is a parrot cage. In Krishna’s hand there was a lantern; in the Hindu’s hand there is a parrot cage. Worship the parrot cage as much as you like, dance and sing by the thousand—light will not come from a parrot cage. There is no light in it.

It happened that the Sufi fakir Bayazid was passing through a village—an extraordinary fakir. He noticed a young man following exactly in his footprints, placing his feet precisely where Bayazid had stepped. If Bayazid turned left, he turned left; if Bayazid turned right, he turned right. For fun, Bayazid began walking in circles; but the youth was stubborn—like a shadow he stayed stuck behind, putting his feet exactly on the footprints.

At last the youth said, You see, I have been walking in your footprints; I’ve received great joy, great flavor from your company. Now do me one favor—tear a piece of your robe and give it to me; I’ll make an amulet of it.

In many lands there is this belief: if you get a piece of a saint’s garment, it becomes an amulet. The saint himself is available, and you ask for a scrap of cloth! Where diamonds could be had, you come away with a shell—how pitiful.

Now he has reached Bayazid. From Bayazid everything that can be received in this life could have been received—yet he asks for a piece of cloth: Just give me a scrap. Bayazid said, Listen: not to speak of my cloth—if you took even a piece of my skin, it would not become an amulet; it would stink. I am not related even to my skin—what relation do I have with my robe? Are you mad?

But the youth insisted. He said, No, I must have your blessing. Bayazid said, If you want my blessing, then listen to me. Ponder what I say. If you want my blessing, walking in my footprints will do nothing; lift your eyes in the direction I point. If you want my blessing, become something like me. Imitation will not do.

We have become carbon copies. We have lost our original tone.

Tradition means a copy. A copy has no value; only the original has value. Whenever religion happens in the world, it flows like a spring in someone’s heart. Yes—when there is a Buddha, it is; when there is a Mahavira, it is; when there is a Jesus, it is; when there is a Nanak, it is—Maluk, Farid…

When someone lives God within himself, religion is. Then that person departs, and the line-beaters come—and usually those line-beaters are very clever people: pundits, priests. They cast great nets of words, spin doctrines and arguments. The real thing has gone; now they keep extracting talk from talk. Nothing is left in the hand—only ash. And on the basis of ash they keep calculating that where there is ash there must also be embers; where there is smoke there must be fire. Such are their inferences.

Religion is not tradition; religion is not conditioning.

So it is true that Malukdas is a devotee and he mocks idol worship. Only a devotee can mock it. Only a devotee has that much courage. For one who has known God will not be afraid of an idol; he will toss it aside.

You fear the idol because you’re afraid God might be offended. You do not know God; from childhood you have known only this idol. You panic that the idol might get angry. How on earth will an idol get angry!

The Zen monk Ikkyu once lodged for the night in a temple. The night was bitterly cold, and he burned a wooden statue of Buddha to warm himself. Seeing a fire in the temple at midnight, the priest came running in a panic. What are you doing? I took you for a monk and let you stay in the temple for the night. You’ve burned a precious image—the statue of the Lord! This is a great sin; you’ll have to atone. The priest was trembling—imagine it: the one you regard as God—someone is burning him to keep warm! If someone were burning your Krishna or your Rama to warm himself—you who dress them with such care, feed them when “they” are hungry, lay them down when they “sleep,” hang a placard, “Please do not disturb, Lord Rama is resting”—and this fool is burning Rama for firewood!

So the priest is shaking. It’s a cold night, but sweat is dripping from his brow. He is saying, My mistake too, that I let you stay; I’ve become a partner in your sin. This is a mortal sin.

Ikkyu laughs. With a stick he pokes through the ash of the burned Buddha statue and says, I’m looking for the Buddha’s relics. Relics? cries the priest. Are you crazy? How could there be bones in a wooden statue? Then Ikkyu says, So you too know it’s a wooden statue. If there are no bones, where is the Buddha? The night is still long, and your temple has many idols—bring another or two. I’ll warm myself and you can warm yourself too.

Only Ikkyu could have such courage. One who knows God—who knows the Buddha face to face—who has had the encounter—would he fear wood and stone? Be frightened? The question doesn’t arise.

We are the ones who are frightened, because we have no acquaintance with the real; the fake scares us. The truth is, we don’t fear the real; we fear only the fake. We’ve never met the real. If God were to stand before you, you would not be afraid—believe me—you would not be, because you would not recognize him. He would not be the bow-bearing Rama, nor the peacock-crowned Krishna. You wouldn’t recognize him; you’d push him aside: Move, you’re blocking the way!

You recognize only your falsities—those popular lies of yours.

I am not saying there is no God in Rama. The divine once flashed in that lamp. Those who were with Rama may have seen the glimpse; those who had eyes recognized it. The blind denied even then: What’s in him? He’s Dasharatha’s son.

In Krishna the divine light once shimmered—the supreme light descended into that lamp; that clay was blessed. Krishna is clay—but into that clay once came the fragrance of God. Those who had a nose for it danced in ecstasy. But others thought him a trickster, a politician, a troublemaker. Then the light departed; the lamp was left behind.

Here only the clay remains—and we go on worshipping the clay. We build tombs of clay; we light lamps at the tombs. Thousands of years pass; we keep worshipping footprints.

I have heard: when Rama returned victorious to Ayodhya and ascended the throne, he held a great court and distributed ranks and rewards to all who had supported the war. But to Hanuman he gave nothing, though Hanuman’s service was the greatest. Sita was perplexed: how could this be? Even the small ones received awards—titles, jewels, rich diamonds, estates. Hanuman—whose service was unsurpassed—was not even mentioned. Could Rama have forgotten? That could not be. To remind him did not seem right either—that would sound like a complaint. So she devised a way not to hurt Hanuman: she quietly called him and placed around his neck her own precious pearl necklace. And they say Hanuman looked at the necklace and began to bite open each pearl and throw it away. Sita said, Foolish monkey! Now I understand why Rama gave you no gift. What are you doing? These are precious pearls—not ordinary ones. Such pearls are gathered over thousands of years to make such a necklace; each one is unique. This priceless necklace is for wearing—what are you doing?

Hanuman said, This necklace is of stones. Perhaps foolish humans can wear it around their necks; I wear only the Name of Rama. I’m tasting each pearl to see if there is any flavor of Rama’s Name in it—finding none, I throw it away.

Perhaps that is why Rama gave Hanuman no reward—because Rama dwelt in Hanuman’s heart. A reward is a symbol; and for the one who has Rama, what reward?

One who has even a little recognition of the Lord has no need of an image, no need of a temple, no need of rites. Then Malukdas can say, I don’t even take the Name of Rama; I am lost in my own ecstasy. Now Rama takes my name.

So yes, Baba Malukdas is a devotee—a supreme devotee—and yet he mocked idol worship. Only a devotee can mock it, because the devotee knows: where is God in an image? And how long will you remain entangled with images? He mocks to startle you, to shake you awake. A saint wants to awaken you—that is why he mocks. There is no disrespect to God in it.

When Ikkyu burned the Buddha’s statue, do you think there was disrespect for God in it? Not in the least. For the same Ikkyu, the next morning, sits by the roadside with folded hands before a milestone, offering flowers. The priest says, You’re utterly mad—last night you burned God’s idol, and now you… this is a milestone, you fool—what are you offering flowers to it for? Ikkyu says, When it is a matter of offering feeling, offer it anywhere—it reaches His feet.

On one side the devotee burns the idol; on the other he places flowers on a milestone. The devotee’s world is very unique—the world of love, an incomparable realm.

From where you think, it may look contradictory, and you may also feel that the devotional tradition has given idol worship its greatest prestige—then what kind of mockery is this?

The devotee has seen God even in the idol, because God is everywhere. Understand the difference.

For the devotee, even the idol is God—because apart from Him nothing at all exists. Everything is God. Therefore, in your temple’s idol too there is God.

Malukdas is not saying that there is no God in the idol. He is only saying: do not fall into the delusion that He is only in the idol—otherwise you will miss. God alone is—and He is everywhere; therefore He is in the idol as well. But then there is no need for special arrangements for the idol.

One to whom God is revealed will see Him in the idol too. But one to whom He appears only in the idol has not yet seen Him at all—so how will he see Him in the idol?

Seeing Nanak sleeping at the Kaaba with his feet toward it, the mullahs woke him and said, You fool, we heard a great sage has come from India—and you have stretched your feet toward the sacred Kaaba! Move your feet!

Nanak said, Do this: you move them, because I am very tired. I am weary from the day—I cannot move them; you move them. And I have stretched my feet in every direction—there is no essence; everywhere it is the same. And I must point my feet somewhere—good sirs, I must point them somewhere! And if everywhere it is the same, what shall I do? You move them.

The story is sweet: in anger the mullahs moved Nanak’s feet—and they saw the Kaaba moved to where his feet were placed.

Whether the Kaaba moved or not is not important. What matters is the inner vision in the tale—it is profound.

If God is everywhere, where will you point your feet? Somewhere you must; and wherever you do, there He is.

There is a similar story in Maharashtra about Eknath: he was sleeping in a temple with his feet resting on the Shiva lingam. An atheist came along. He was alarmed—even though an atheist who believes the lingam is only stone, still he was afraid. Even he could not bring himself to kick the lingam. He had come to ask questions, driven by curiosity. He thought, What questions can I ask this man? He seems more of an atheist than I! Even I can’t kick Shiva; I know it’s nothing—but still I would hesitate. Why invite trouble? Who knows—there might be something; later some obstacle might arise.

So he shook Eknath awake and said, Sir, I have heard you are a great man—what are you doing? Your feet are on Shiva!

Eknath said, Where else should I place them? I have to place them somewhere. Can you show me a place where Shiva is not?

This is a very deep vision. It is the devotee’s possibility. Only a devotee like Eknath can rest his feet on Shiva, and only a devotee like Malukdas can mock idol worship.

This is not opposition to devotion; it is a proclamation of devotion.

You already have the intelligence; you are simply not using it. Have you seen the goldsmith’s touchstone on which he tests gold? That touchstone is lying right in your own pocket. But you never test the gold of your life upon it. The two never meet.

The discerning intelligence is already with you; had it to be brought from somewhere else, it would be very difficult. If you didn’t have it, how would you even begin to search? With what would you search? How would you recognize anything?

You have the discerning intelligence, but you haven’t used it. You pass through the very same experiences Malukdas must have passed through. You too have been angry, you too have hated, you too have harbored ill will, you too have cultivated enmity; you too have indulged in sensuality. You too have repented, you too have been defeated.

You have gone through the same experiences Malukdas went through; you have no special, separate experiences. And the intelligence that is with Malukdas is with you as well. God has shown no favoritism in this matter.

Everyone has intelligence—sufficient intelligence. So what is the difference? Malukdas applied his intelligence to his life’s experiences. He tested each experience. He got angry, and then, with his intelligence, he examined it: What did I gain? Did I receive anything from it? Is this something to keep doing, or something to stop?

You never test. You flare up in anger and then you forget. You extract no essence from the experience, no distillation of understanding. That anger never becomes part of your wealth; otherwise even anger can become a ladder. You did it once, twice, thrice—how many times! And never, ever, did you get anything. Yet the realization that “I have never received anything from this” has not sunk deep. So next time you do it, at least do it with a little hesitation. I’m not even saying don’t do it—do it with a little hesitation. Pause for a moment. Consider for a moment. First close your eyes and review all your past experiences of anger. So many times you’ve done it; so many times you’ve repented; so many times you got nothing. Now the moment has come again; the opportunity has come again—shall you do it or not?

When Gurdjieff’s grandfather was dying, he said to Gurdjieff, “I have nothing material to give you; I am a poor man. But I will give you one thing that helped me greatly in life; it will help you too.” Gurdjieff was nine years old. His grandfather said, “You may not understand it yet, but memorize it exactly; one day you will understand. Whenever anger arises, ask for twenty-four hours’ time. Say, ‘I will come back after twenty-four hours and respond.’ If someone abuses you, tell him, ‘Fine—you have abused me; I will come back after twenty-four hours to reply.’”

Gurdjieff has written that this small formula changed his entire life. Who can be angry after twenty-four hours? Anger is such a fire that if it happens, it happens in the instant. A little later your intelligence will say to you, “Why get entangled in such foolishness? Why think of killing and being killed?”

Gurdjieff writes: anger then never happened. After twenty-four hours either it would become clear to me that what the person said was true. Suppose someone calls you a thief; you are ready to fight. First think: it could be that he is right. If he is right, he deserves thanks. He has reminded you; he is your friend, not your enemy.

If what he said is true, there is no cause for anger—go and thank him. Or, if what he said is utterly false—well, if it’s completely false, what is there to be angry about? Who gets angry at a lie?

Notice: when someone says something about you that pricks somewhere inside, it means there is some truth in it. If someone calls you a thief and it stings, or someone calls you a liar and it stings, it’s because you know you have lied; you know you have stolen—if not in action, then at least in thought, with intentions formed.

It is only the true thing that pricks. When someone insults you and you become angry, your very anger is the proof that what he said had truth in it.

So either he spoke truly—then go and thank him. Or he spoke idly—then compassion will arise: “Poor fellow, he labored in vain. He became so frantic, ready to kill and be killed, over a lie that has nothing to do with me; whatever he said must be meant for someone else.” Either way, the matter is finished.

You have been angry many times, but you have not used the discerning intelligence. And don’t ask how to acquire discerning intelligence—that question itself is a trick. The discerning intelligence is already with you.

When a thorn pricks you, don’t you know that it hurts? Don’t you then walk more carefully to avoid thorns? When your hand first touches fire, don’t you hesitate to touch it again? That is discerning intelligence. What else is it? You recognize: this is a thorn, it hurts—walk carefully. You understand: this is fire—don’t touch it. But in the deeper matters of life you don’t apply it.

Anger is a thorn. Lust is fire; it burns. Desire is insatiable; it never fills. Imagine a bucket with no bottom, and you keep drawing water from the well. There is no bottom to the bucket. It makes a lot of clatter; the bucket descends into the well. When you peer in, the bucket appears full—because it is submerged. Then you pull it up, and it comes back empty.

How many times have you lowered the bucket of your life into the well of lust? What did you get? It always returns empty.

You have intelligence; perhaps you do not want to use it. Perhaps you are afraid that if you do use it, some truths might become clear.

I had a friend who was terrified of death. One fear haunted him: death might come. But death is coming—there is no reason to be afraid of what is already on its way. I told him, “You are afraid of something for which there is no reason to fear; death is coming anyway, and there is no way to avoid it. No one has ever escaped—not till today. How will you escape? So accept what must be.”

But he was frightened even by the word “death.” We too avoid using the word. When someone dies, we say, “So-and-so has become a resident of heaven.” We don’t say directly that he died. “He has gone to heaven.” Or, “He has become dear to God.”

We are afraid to use the word death; it makes us uneasy. We say, “God has taken him.” Now, not everyone who dies becomes a resident of heaven. By your reckoning, even those who die in Delhi become residents of heaven! That cannot be. Have you ever seen a newspaper report that says of someone, “He has become a resident of hell”?

We are afraid—afraid of death. We do not use the word death; we hide it in pretty phrases. We say, “He has set out on the great journey.” We have invented elegant ways of saying it.

A man dies—never once in his entire life did he repeat God’s name. Yet we walk with his bier chanting, “Ram nam satya hai—God’s name is truth.” It had no relation to his life. In his life, God’s name was untrue—never once was it true. And now the man is dead; we carry the corpse and chant, “God’s name is true”!

We have made life false—from one corner to the other.

That friend was very distressed. Then he developed some illness—and he wouldn’t go to the doctor! His wife came to me: “At least make him agree to visit the doctor.”

I called him. He said, “Why should I go? I am not ill. I’ll go only if I fall ill.” I told him, “Look, your logic is perfectly correct.” He was a college professor. “Your logic is perfectly correct. But if you’re not ill, then why are you afraid to go? Come with me. Your wife’s mind will be at ease. Why make a fuss?”

He was in a bind, no way to wriggle out. “Since you’re not ill,” I said, “what is there to fear? I’ll pay the fee. I’ll drive you there and bring you back. Your wife agrees, and you are not ill. Are you ill?” He said, “No.”

But beads of sweat stood on his forehead, because he knew he was ill. He couldn’t climb stairs. He panted easily. His heart was weak. That is exactly what he feared—that something serious might be wrong.

On the way he said to me, “Is this really necessary?” I said, “Nothing is necessary—because you are not ill.” He said, “Come on, drop it. You know I’m afraid. And you know my condition isn’t good. And I don’t want to know. I’m afraid because my father died of TB; my mother died of TB; what if I have TB!”

I said, “Fear won’t cure TB. Denial won’t cure TB. And now TB is treatable; TB isn’t even much of a disease now. Compared to the common cold, TB is a weaker illness. The cold never goes away; TB does—TB has a cure. The common cold has no cure. So you’re not in some dangerous predicament. TB will be cured. But if you’re afraid even of diagnosis, how will it be cured?”

That is our condition.

It turned out to be TB. And when the diagnosis came and he was returning home, he was very angry with me: “I told you beforehand there was no need to go.” Now panic had seized him. He had TB—and he had been denying it.
The one who has asked is Sukhdev Maharaj: “How does one attain the discriminating intelligence to tell the few kernels from the many pebbles?”
You have intelligence, Sukhdev Maharaj! You have it well enough. You even know it. You recognize it—and you keep dodging it.

I had to soothe myself, so I kept soothing myself.
Even with an inner fire burning, I kept laughing, kept singing.
I kept sensing the deceit of color and fragrance,
Yet still I went on swallowing the deceit of color and fragrance.
I had to soothe myself, so I kept soothing myself.

All this is self-soothing. You know the reality; everyone does. I have not seen a person who does not know it. You keep denying it. You won’t look reality in the eye. You keep sneaking your glance here and there. You look with your eyes averted.

I had to soothe myself, so I kept hoodwinking myself.
If it is soothing you want, then go on soothing.
Even with the inner fire within, I kept laughing, kept singing.
The heart was burning, yet on the surface I went on smiling.
Even with the inner fire within, I kept laughing, kept singing.
I knew—inside there was a burn, and on the surface I smiled. Those smiles of yours are devices to conceal, self-deceptions.

I kept sensing the deceit of color and fragrance.
I kept seeing that this world of hues and scents is all a trick.
I kept sensing the deceit of color and fragrance.
I kept realizing that all is momentary.
Yet still I went on swallowing the deceit of color and fragrance—there was such sweetness in the illusion that I kept tasting it again and again.

No—discernment does not have to be created. God has given you discriminating intelligence; you only have to use it. The touchstone is in your pocket—within you. Start applying it to the experiences of life. All right, if you haven’t till now, no need to worry. Much life is still left; use it even now.

If a person were to use his discernment for just twenty-four hours, he would become a different man. In twenty-four hours almost everything repeats that repeats over a lifetime: anger arises, lust arises; hunger comes, thirst comes; honor and insult happen; ego grips, greed grips, jealousy grips, resentment burns. In twenty-four hours the whole story repeats. And then you go on repeating the same story day after day.

If for just twenty-four hours you stayed awake and watched what is happening—and looked closely at each thing, without dodging it; if you fixed your gaze on your own experience—there would be no obstacle. Liberation is very near. All the material is ready. The veena is lying with you—only pluck the strings.

You ask: Where should we search for the veena? I say: the veena is placed right before you. Move your fingers a little. The veena is there; the fingers are there; the moment the fingers touch the strings, the notes will rise. Everything is there. Yet you ask: Where is the veena! This is your stratagem. You say: If there is no veena, how can I bring forth music! The courtyard is crooked—how can I dance! But if you wish to dance, what difference does the crookedness of the courtyard make? And if you do not wish to dance, however square the courtyard, what difference will it make? None at all.

Think of two sides of a coin—whose is more important? Think of day and night—which matters more? Think of the egg and the hen—whose importance is greater? They are conjoined; connected. In truth they are not two; they are one.
Day and night are not two; they are two aspects of one phenomenon. The egg and the hen are not two; they are two stages of a single journey.
For centuries scientists and philosophers have argued about which came first, the hen or the egg. There have even been madmen who thought hard about it, trying to answer it, raising disputes. One says, “The hen came first—without the hen how could there be an egg?” And with equal logic another says, “The egg came first—without the egg how could there be a hen?” Their quarrel can go on for centuries with no end, because there cannot be an end.
I want to tell you: neither the hen is first nor the egg is first. The hen and the egg are not two. The hen is a form of the egg; the egg is a form of the hen. The egg is the primary form of the hen; the hen is the matured state of the egg. Like childhood and old age. Childhood, growing and growing, becomes old age. Life, growing and growing, becomes death. And day, growing and growing, becomes night. They are joined.
So it is with love and renunciation. They are not separate.
Whoever has known renunciation has known love; whoever has known love has known renunciation. Renunciation without love is false. Love without renunciation is false. If love is true, renunciation will come with it. If renunciation is true, the flame of love will be burning within it.
If you say, “Here is an egg—but it was not laid by a hen,” then know the egg is false—factory-made, plastic. If you say, “Here is a hen—but she did not come from an egg,” then the hen cannot be real. A real hen comes only from an egg.
In the world there is such “love” in which there is no renunciation, and such “renunciation” in which there is no love. Both are false, hollow, artificial, superficial.
The love the saints speak of brings renunciation with it like a shadow. And the renunciation they speak of has love as its very soul.
Now try to understand—why are the two linked?
Whenever you love, a feeling of giving arises within you. Love gives. What is love? The supreme urge to give. Love shares. Whatever love has, it scatters. Love rejoices in giving. Love is not stingy. Therefore misers are not lovers. In fact, a miser cannot be a lover at all. Do not befriend a miser. A miser has no feeling for giving, therefore friendship cannot happen. And lovers are not misers.
Psychologists also agree that those whose lives are full of love never manage to amass much wealth, property, position. How could they? No sooner does something come than it goes. Their hands are always open. It is like the open sky—ever distributing. And those who do accumulate wealth and status—grasp this one point—you will not find love in their lives; you will not find even the tone of love. There the race to accumulate is so intense that the question of sharing does not even arise. Even to give a single coin will cause anxiety and restlessness: “One coin less!” There, giving means becoming less. In the world of love, giving means there is more. The more love gives, the more it grows.
So love means the capacity to share oneself. Renunciation then comes on its own. But this renunciation is very unique. It is not the renunciation of the Jain monk; that renunciation is hollow. This is the lover’s renunciation. This is the renunciation of Malukdas. This is the renunciation of Mahavira—but not the renunciation of the Jain monk. This is not dry dispassion (vairagya). Understand the difference.
One man gives up wealth because if he clings to it he will have to go to hell. He is relinquishing wealth out of fear. Another man gives up wealth because others are in need. He gives to those who need it. This man relinquishes wealth out of love.
Both are giving up wealth, but the process of their giving up is very different, and the results are different.
The man who gave up wealth out of fear of hell did perform a renunciation, but in his renunciation there is no soul of love. It is a dead renunciation. Therefore he will sing his own praises: “See how much I have given up! How much I have renounced!” He will build a throne upon his renunciation and sit upon it. He will become stiff with pride—“Look, I renounced millions!” He has given to no one; he has merely abandoned. He has not shared; he has fled. He fled out of fear.
It is like someone pressing a pistol to your chest and saying, “Empty your pockets,” and you quickly empty them and say, “Here, sir, I have renounced everything!” Is that renunciation?
Hell’s pistol is at your chest and you give up your money. Is that renunciation? It is not.
Renunciation is a far greater thing. Renunciation means: you see that another needs what you need even more. You see that hoarding it makes no sense; many will be deprived. You see that this current should flow; it belongs to all; what of it is “mine”? The air is everyone’s, the sky is everyone’s—everything is everyone’s; what is “mine” in it? You do not hold possessiveness, because you see that all are co-owners. You do not claim ownership—out of love. Then there is a unique dignity in your renunciation, a certain glory. And then you will not even speak of it. You will not even remember it. Your renunciation will not become an ornament of your ego. And if renunciation becomes an ornament of the ego, you have missed. The arrow has missed the mark.
Renunciation is true only when even you do not know of it.
There is a Sufi story: A Sufi fakir became so deeply immersed in prayer to God that an angel appeared and said, “The Lord has sent me; ask for a boon.” He said, “But I lack nothing. Whatever I need—I have been given more than enough. His love for me is boundless. Thank you. I need nothing.” But the angel said, “This is against the rule. When God sends someone to bless, you must receive; otherwise it is disrespect. You will have to accept.” The fakir said, “You have put me in a great difficulty. Then you yourself suggest what I should take! Because nothing comes to mind. I have more than I need; I only share. His love has filled me so much that I keep sharing and it keeps increasing. Whatever I have, I share. And there is never any lack. Now you have created a strange problem. So you tell me.”
The angel said, “Ask for something through which others are benefited. Suppose that by your touch the sick are healed, or that by your touch a withered tree becomes green. Ask for something so that your hand acquires the power of sanjivani, life-restoring grace.”
The fakir said, “That is good. But there is a danger. I am not completely dissolved yet. There is the risk that pride may arise—‘By my touch the withered bush turned green; by my touch flowers bloomed out of season; by my touch the dead arose.’ I am not yet dead; a little ‘I’ still remains. That would be dangerous. But if you insist, then grant this blessing to my shadow—that if my shadow falls upon a withered tree, the tree becomes green; if my shadow touches a dead man, he comes alive.”
The angel asked, “What difference will that make?” He replied, “It will make a difference. I will never look back. Whatever happens through the shadow, let it be the shadow’s affair. Let nothing connect to me.”
And they say the fakir would then run—from one village to another, from one neighborhood to another, from one person to another. He never looked back in his life. He just kept running so that as many people as possible might be touched by his shadow: a sick person might be healed; a dead one might rise; a withered tree might turn green; a dried-up spring might begin to flow. But he kept running. He never looked back. He never stayed in one village, because the farther and wider he could run and the more people his shadow could touch, the better. And he never even remembered who had been healed. He kept no accounts. Had you asked him at the end of his life—even had God himself asked—he could not have told how many dead had risen, how many trees had turned green, how many springs had flowed, how many illnesses had vanished. He would have had no account at all.
Love knows no accounting. Love never looks back. There is no arithmetic in love.
So you ask: “Between love and renunciation, which is of greater importance?”
To raise the very question of “greater importance” is wrong.
Renunciation comes in the wake of love; and with renunciation, love is there.
But if by your question you mean, “Where should we begin?” then I will tell you: begin with love. Because starting with renunciation, a mistake is possible.
Many have advised you to start with renunciation. I do not say that. I say: start with love, because love is the center; renunciation is the circumference. There can be no circumference without a center, and there can be no center without a circumference; so as far as being is concerned, both have equal value.
But if you want to draw a circumference, first you must set the compass on the center. The circumference is born from the center. Love is the center.
So first fill yourself with love! Let renunciation come on its own, and your shadow will gain strength, a sanjivani quality will infuse your shadow. But do not drag renunciation to the front. Granted that both the oxen and the cart are important—will the cart move with only oxen? Will the oxen move with only the cart?—yet do not yoke the oxen behind the cart. Yoke the oxen in front; let the cart follow behind.
Let love lead—let renunciation follow.
In this sense love is more important. From the seeker’s standpoint, love is more meaningful, more important. From the standpoint of the realized one, both are equal.

Could there be a better way to say it! What words cannot say, tears say. And what tears can say, words can never say; words are very helpless and weak. And this gratitude is not something that will reach me only if you give it. If you speak this thank-you, it will become small. Better not say it at all. Let the eyes moisten; they say it far better.

Words have limits; tears have none. Words distort; tears are immaculate. The moment you put something in words, it is already less than what you wanted to say.

Rabindranath was on his deathbed. In his life he wrote six thousand songs. A friend came to visit and said, “You are blessed. You should thank the Lord that you wrote six thousand songs! You are the great poet of the whole earth. In English, Shelley is called a great poet; he, too, wrote two thousand songs. You have written six thousand.”

Rabindranath opened his eyes and said, “What are you saying! I was praying to God, ‘What is this? Is it time to take me already? I have still not managed to say what I wanted to say. These six thousand songs are the news of my failures. I tried to say it six thousand times and failed six thousand times. Whenever I bound it in words, I saw that the real thing was left behind.’

“So I was telling God, ‘What kind of affair is this? What sense does this make? Only now had my hands become a little skillful; my capacity with words had increased a little; my chisel had gone a little deeper; perhaps now I would polish something; perhaps carve a statue; perhaps mold something out of words; perhaps now a poem would be born. Only now had I finished tuning my drum, my veena; only now had I set the instrument right. I have not yet sung the song! And the moment of farewell has come!’”

That is true, but I want to say that even if Rabindranath were to live a thousand years, after a thousand years it would be just as true. If instead of six thousand he wrote six hundred thousand songs, it would still be true. Because feeling cannot be bound in words.

You ask: “I have so much to say to you, but I cannot say it.”

This is something that can be said only in silence, and only then can it be said. Drop the fuss of words; take the support of silence. Silence speaks too. Silence speaks with great depth. Silence has great glory. Silence both says and imposes no boundary. Silence is like the sky—boundless. Words are small courtyards. Drop your insistence on the courtyard; say it to the whole sky.

And what is there to say! It seems to you there is much to say because you cannot say it; therefore it feels like much. Perhaps there is nothing to say. Perhaps there is just one small thing to be said.

Very timidly, today I make this confession:
I want you, I revere you, I love you.

Perhaps there is only this much to be said—a small confession: “I want you, I revere you, I love you; very timidly, today I make this confession.”

Because love is that one thing that cannot be said. Everything else can be said.

An extraordinary love must be arising within you. Love is such that, as soon as it arises, the intellect is dumbfounded. Because love is not a function of the intellect; love belongs to the heart.

And your tears come from your heart. Your eyes never weep because of the head—never. Eyes do not weep because of the intellect. Because of the intellect, eyes dry up, tears dry up. Because of the intellect, the eyes become a desert. Then there is no greenery in the eyes; no streams flow; no flowers bloom; no birds sing.

Humanity has withered badly. Men even more so. For centuries men have been told: Don’t cry. Crying is effeminate. Existence has made no such distinction. Your eyes have as many tear glands as a woman’s eyes. There is no difference at all. If you wish, ask an eye doctor. God has given an equal capacity to produce tears to both. So this idea that you are a man, don’t cry, is foolish.

The ill effects have been many. The greatest is that men go mad more often; twice as many. Men commit suicide more; twice as many.

And if we also reckon the wars made by men, then the madness becomes entirely clear. Every ten years a world war is needed. So much life fills up—with sorrow, gloom, anger—that there is an explosion.

In five thousand years—so they say—except for a few days, the earth has been at war. Those few days—seven hundred years! And not even seven hundred consecutively. Sometimes for two days there was no war, sometimes for ten. In five thousand years, leaving aside seven hundred, there has been war all along. Man is utterly insane!

Tears come—from the heart. And here, in this unique experiment we are doing together, in this shared journey, the basic purpose is just this: that your energy move away from the head and begin to flow into the heart.

So it is good that you cannot say it. There is nothing to say. Yes, there is a petition; there is some love.

Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

There was a pang of the mind,
Shaped in practices, nurtured in imaginings.
The path was unknown to me; I had not yet walked
The narrow lane of love.
The feet advanced, and suddenly
The heart, too, surged ahead;
All the conventional illusions of the world crumbled in a moment—
Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

That sweet hour of waiting, that sweet visage—
I stood astonished, grateful.
I cannot say whether it was the heart’s victory or its defeat;
The pain was delicate.
Silence remained my speech, yet
The secret of the heart opened.
What I did not wish to say, these eyes said all—
Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

The image that I had cherished in imagination, I found right before me—
That moment, too, arrived.
A unique beauty spread over the heart; the mind was enchanted;
Just to behold it, I blushed.
How could I make my entreaty?
I lost myself within myself,
And now my very life seems somewhat taken unawares—
Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

What is happening through your tears is auspicious, true, beautiful. This is your as yet unfamiliar world—you have remained untouched by it so far—hence there will be restlessness. Hence you want to say something, because you have not yet taken the path of not-saying.

The path was unknown to me; I had not yet walked
The narrow lane of love.

Do not be afraid. And do not be disturbed or anxious. The lane of love is indeed narrow—so narrow that two cannot enter. So narrow that even words cannot enter; only the wordless has admission there.

Let this step move on; let it proceed toward the heart. Thought, language, and words—all are man-made. Thoughtlessness, silence is given by God.

The feet advanced, and suddenly
The heart, too, surged ahead;
All the conventional illusions of the world crumbled in a moment—
Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

Advance; have a little courage. Revolution happens in a single moment.

That sweet hour of waiting, that sweet visage—
I stood astonished, grateful.
I cannot say whether it was the heart’s victory or its defeat;
The pain was delicate.
Silence remained my speech, yet
The secret of the heart opened.
What I did not wish to say, these eyes said all—
Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

The word “vedana” is very unique.

That sweet hour of waiting, that sweet visage—
I stood astonished, grateful.
I cannot say whether it was the heart’s victory or its defeat;
The pain was delicate.

“Vedana” is one of those unique words. It has two meanings: pain and awareness—pain and knowledge. Vedana is made from the same root as Veda, from the root vid. Veda means knowledge, awareness.

So one meaning of vedana is awareness, and the other meaning is pain. It is astonishing that two opposite meanings with no apparent harmony belong to the same word—but this is significant.

It is pain that makes us aware. Nothing else does. When a thorn pierces the foot, you become aware of the foot. If no thorn pierces it, you are not even aware of your foot. When there is a headache, you become aware of the head; otherwise, even of the head you are unaware.

We become aware of what is touched by pain. The first awareness of the divine comes through the pain of separation from the divine. The first awareness of God comes through pain. Something aches; something pricks. Something feels empty, missed; life feels somewhat meaningless. We do everything, yet nothing seems to happen. Because whatever we do is done through the intellect. And through the intellect no connection with the Lord is ever made.

This is the entire message of Baba Malukdas: if you want to connect with the Lord, become masti—ecstatic—be in feeling; dive into the heart. And Malukdas’s first sutra is that there are two kinds of pain: the pain of separation and the pain of union.

The pain of union is very sweet; the pain of separation is also very sweet. The devotee experiences both. The pain of separation is also dear—because the Lord has not yet arrived. There is waiting, there is longing. The door is open, the eyes are spread like a carpet to welcome. This is also sweet. Tears are flowing.

If tears flow in waiting for the Lord, how blessed! What greater fortune could there be! And then there is a moment when the Lord arrives—and tears flow again! Because the joy is so great it cannot be contained. Yet there is separation, yet there is pain.

The image that I had cherished in imagination, I found right before me—
That moment, too, arrived.
A unique beauty spread over the heart; the mind was enchanted;
Just to behold it, I blushed.

Perhaps what you want to say, you cannot say; a shyness seizes the mind. How could you say it? With important matters, shyness always arises.

Have you ever told someone: I love you? How difficult it is! How hard it becomes! A lover thinks in a thousand ways: I’ll say it like this, I’ll say it like that. Ask lovers… “Today I will say it for sure.” The lover builds a thousand preludes. He talks of the moon and stars, thinks that now the background is right, now I will say, “I love you.” And just there he falters, just there he blushes. Something gets stuck.

The word love is too small to reveal the experience of love; it is too meager. It can only be said in silence.

The image that I had cherished in imagination, I found right before me—
That moment, too, arrived.
A unique beauty spread over the heart; the mind was enchanted;
Just to behold it, I blushed.
How could I make my entreaty?
I lost myself within myself,
And now my very life seems somewhat taken unawares—
Songs stirred in my soul, but were swept away by feeling.

Certainly love has arisen within you; it should arise. If the fountains of love do not spring, you are unfortunate. You are fortunate that you want to say something and cannot.

“And I have many thank-yous to give, but I cannot give them!”

No; this will not be fulfilled by giving thanks. It will be fulfilled when you share with others what I have given you. There is no other way.

There is only one way to be free of this debt: whatever I am giving you, don’t be miserly with it; don’t hold it within; let it flow; let it go to others.

Jesus said to his disciples: Go now, and stand upon the rooftops and shout, so that even the deaf may hear. I say the same to you.

There is no need to give me thanks. Without your speaking, the thanks has arrived. I have seen it in your eyes. What your heart has said, I have heard within me. What is said within you is said within me as well.

You have heard the old story, haven’t you? A horseman—a Rajput—was riding along with his sword at his side. An old woman, perhaps eighty, was walking on the road with a bundle on her head. She said to him, “Son, I am tired. I have to go to the next village, and you will be passing through there too. Take this bundle, put it on your horse, and give it at the first hut you see in the village. I will pick it up.”

The horseman said, “What do you take me for? Am I your servant? Some hired help?” Saying so, he dug his heels into the horse and rode ahead.

After about half a mile, it occurred to him: Who knows what might be in the old woman’s bundle! I let it go for nothing. I should have taken it. Who was asking me to give it to anyone? I could have just taken it along. Perhaps there was something valuable!

He turned back. “Mother, I made a mistake. Forgive me. Give me the bundle. I’ll deliver it to the first hut.” The old woman said, “Son, what was said to you has now been said to me as well.”

There are some things that float across. “Now there is no need to give the bundle,” the old woman said. “I’ll carry it myself.”

Some things become waves that travel. Feelings do, very easily—even that was a feeling, though of dishonesty. Its waves reached her.

When a dishonest person is near you, or someone wants to cheat you, if you have a simple heart, you will recognize it instantly. If you are dishonest yourself, perhaps you will not.

If your heart holds love, you will understand the other’s loving entreaty—whether spoken or unspoken. But if there is no love in your life, then even if someone stands right beside you, filled with love, you will not understand.

Don’t worry about thanks. Your thanks has reached. Do only this: whatever you receive, keep sharing it, keep increasing it, keep giving it to someone.

“I look toward you and I weep.”

Good. It is not enough that you weep only when you sit near me here. When you go away, when you return to your village, there too, sometimes close your eyes, see me, and weep. In that weeping, the seeds of your prayer will be sown.

I want to make you my own.

This land is strange; every path here is strange.
Why just my story—here each one is unaware of himself.
How can anyone make me the vermilion of his bed,
When even my own gaze does not recognize me?
Enshrining your bewitching image in these eyes,
I want to forget myself forever.
I want to make you my own.

To make the lamp his own, the moth is burning;
To become a drop of the ocean, the Himalaya is melting;
To win the earth’s love, the cloud is restless in the sky;
To kiss death, breath walks its path day and night.
No one is alone upon the road—it moves for this very reason;
I want to burn body and mind in your fire.
I want to make you my own.

To join yourself to the master is the first step toward God. To accept yourself as one with the master is a very significant event, because after that there will be no obstacle in accepting yourself as one with God.

The master is the lesson in surrender to God. The journey is into God; the master is the doorway. The Sikh word “Gurudwara” is beautiful. A temple named “Gurudwara”—exactly right.

The master is a doorway; you have to pass through it. Do not get stuck there. Therefore there is no need to thank me. There is nothing to say about me. Whatever you want to say, say it to God. Go beyond me.

Even there you will find there is nothing to say. There really is nothing to say. What can be said is trivial; what cannot be said is the vast.

Lao Tzu has said: What can be said is not the truth. What cannot be said—that is the truth.

Now this is a new desire that has caught you. You have not learned. You made so many ambitions, so many desires; all were defeated; you got nothing but sorrow. Now you are nurturing a new hope, a new desire—that the mind should become quiet. Then you have not really understood. The lesson has not sunk deep.

The only meaning of the mind becoming silent is that we will no longer desire. What else could it mean!

You have tried desire. Desire brings worry. Worry breeds tension. And every desire has drowned you in failure.

None of your desires can ever be fulfilled, because your desires run counter to the Divine. And if some desire of yours is not contrary to the Divine, you have no need to desire it at all.

Whenever we desire, we are trying to swim against the river’s current.

The devotee says: Thy will be done. What is my will! Who am I! I am just a small wave in Your ocean; wherever You move, we will move too. I am a straw; wherever You flow, we too will drift.

Jesus said on the cross, “O Lord, Thy will be done.” For a moment a desire had arisen in him, a thought had come; for a moment, annoyed, he had even said to God, “What are You doing to me! Have You forsaken me? Abandoned me? In this hour of crisis You have not remained with me?” Then understanding dawned: What am I saying! This means I still have some hidden craving, some repressed desire—that God should do thus, and then it would be fine.

Whenever you have desired, what did you want? You wanted existence to move according to you. How can this vast existence run according to you!

Just think: what is your proportion? Imagine a little leaf on a flame tree beginning to think that the entire tree should move to suit it. When I sway, it should sway. When I am still, it should be still. When I sleep, it should sleep. When I wake, it should wake. How can this be? The tree cannot conduct itself by obeying the leaf. The leaf must move by obeying the tree. The part must yield to the Whole.

The Whole cannot proceed by accepting our word. Will the ocean move according to the waves! How could that be! When the tree sways, the leaf sways. And when the tree sleeps, the leaf sleeps.

Man’s trouble is precisely that he desires. To desire means he wants the entire vastness to run in line with his will. This cannot happen; and when it does not happen, dejection arises. When failure comes to hand, there is pain and suffering. It seems as if everyone is your enemy. As if all existence is against you. No one is against you.

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin was sitting at his door. It was raining cats and dogs, and someone came running and said, “Big Mian, what are you doing sitting here! Your wife has fallen into the river. Hurry—save her.”

Mulla ran. He jumped into the river fully clothed and began thrashing about, trying to swim upstream against the current. People standing on the bank shouted, “Big Mian, use some sense! If your wife has fallen in, she’ll go downstream; you are swimming upstream!” Mulla said, “Do you know my wife, or do I? Another man’s wife might go with the current. I know my wife very well—she always goes the opposite way. She must have gone upstream. That is my lifelong experience.”

Man is just like this. All your desires and ambitions run against the flow of life. The ego even enjoys going against the current. Going with the current, the ego cannot endure. Then “you” are not.

When you say, “Lord, Thy will be done,” where are you then? Where am “I”? The “I” exists only when my will is done. When I bend the whole of existence to my will—then there is the thrill of “I.” Flowing with the current, the “I” is dissolved.

You say, “Not a single aspiration has been fulfilled in life.”
They never are; nobody’s ever are. And if sometimes it seems to you that a desire was fulfilled, it only means that by coincidence you desired exactly what existence desired. That is merely coincidence. Defeat is certain; victory is coincidence. Let me repeat it: defeat is certain; victory is coincidence. It is as if a leaf were thinking, “I will sway,” and just then a gust of wind came, the tree began to sway, the leaf swayed too, and the leaf said, “Ah, what a marvel!”

I have heard this: A young man was sitting with his beloved on the seashore. The beloved was utterly spellbound by him. And when one is spellbound in love, one loses all sense. Just then the youth quoted a poem whose meaning was: “O waves of the sea, rise and come to me.” Now, the waves were anyway rising and coming. He said, “O waves of the sea, rise and come to me,” and great waves began to come. His beloved said, “Amazing—the ocean obeys you too!”

Which ocean obeys whom! It was a matter of coincidence.

Victory is not assured. Defeat is assured; victory is mere coincidence. So when you occasionally win, don’t strut about in vain. It was a coincidence that what you desired was also the Vast’s desire. It was fulfilled. But in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases such coincidence will not occur. Coincidences happen only now and then. In ninety-nine cases you will lose.

You say, “Not a single aspiration has been fulfilled in life.”
This is not only true of you; it is true of everyone. No one’s desires are ever fulfilled. Were desires and ambitions to be fulfilled, then, as Malukdas says: “Kan thore, kankar ghane?”—“Are grains few and pebbles many?” “Kan thore” means that one percent which sometimes, once in a while, gets fulfilled. And “kankar ghane”—the ninety-nine percent that never do.

“You have met with failure in every way.”
Now at least learn. Now at least wake up. Now at least make no more desires. But again you are making a new desire.

You say, “I am sunk in despondency. Now I have only one wish left: that somehow the mind may become quiet.”
Now you have made a new desire—that the mind should become quiet.

Often in my experience, those who set out to quiet the mind become more restless. They have taken on a big hassle: now the mind must be silent.

Before, you wanted wealth. Wealth, perhaps, by trying, might even be attained. Wealth is such a trivial thing that it can be had. Not a big deal. It can be had even by stealing. By dishonesty. By cheating and trickery. And sometimes, by coincidence, you might even find it lying by the roadside.

Someone wanted office and status; that too can be had.

But now you have made a great desire: that the mind become silent. This is the greatest of all desires. You will get into trouble.

I have often seen that so-called religious people become more restless than the irreligious. The “religious” person is a big nuisance.

If someone in the house turns religious, you know the whole household gets into a mess. “Now they are doing worship! Now they are meditating! Now they are praying! Children, don’t make noise.” The wife can’t clang the utensils; doors can’t be shut hard. The whole house gets into difficulty. And they themselves are not becoming peaceful! They sit there, boiling. In the name of prayer and worship, a fire is burning within.

They are just waiting for a chance—for someone to bang a door, for a child to cry, for the wife to drop a pot—so they can come out and say, “My meditation has been disturbed.” At least some excuse to come out; at least the claim that someone else broke the meditation.

Those in whom meditation happens—there is nothing to be broken. And if it gets “broken,” there was no meditation there to begin with.

No—do not entangle yourself in this desire. If you have clearly understood that all desires lead to suffering, then do not raise a new desire—and you will find the mind has become quiet.

The mind’s peace does not come by effort; the distilled essence of deep living is this: no desire leads to peace—desire agitates.

So at least do not make this new desire. Do this much at least. Now just be still. Say, “All right—whatever will be, will be. If the mind is restless, let the mind be restless. What will we do! What has our doing ever changed? The outer didn’t get set right—how will the inner?”

Now say, “Lord, Thy will. If You want to keep me restless, keep me restless. If You want to keep me mad, keep me mad. However You keep me, thus will I remain. I consent to Your will. ‘Jihi vidhi rakhain Ram, tihi vidhi rahiye’—however Ram keeps one, in that way remain. However You keep us—so shall we remain. If You want to keep me restless, surely You have some will in it. You must be using my unrest for some work. Fine—so be it. There is joy even in this.”

Do you understand me?

Even in restlessness, if you bring the attitude of acceptance, then how will you remain restless? Even in restlessness, if you consent, you are at peace. What more peace is needed? Your tension will dissolve.

Life is indeed mine,
but I have no jurisdiction over dreams.
Listen:
Life is indeed mine,
but I have no jurisdiction over dreams.
Many burn in the fire—who here becomes pure gold?
Millions drown—into whose hands comes the pearl?
How can I, with my tottering little boat,
go on gazing at the farther shore?
The ocean beckons to me,
but the waves will not consent.
Life is indeed mine,
but I have no jurisdiction over dreams.
Each has his fate—somewhere a stream of nectar, somewhere a lightning bolt falls.
One flower blooms in the dew; one bud withers on the very first day.
Parched lips have a hundred times looked up at the monsoon clouds—
At whose house will the clouds rain
when one has no home of one’s own?
Life is indeed mine,
but I have no jurisdiction over dreams.
The picture is very bewitching—but there is no auspicious turmeric design.
This adornment is the work of my hands; it is no mere fancy.
Your form is like gold, reflected in the mirror of the mind—
But even if the mirror accepts it,
a shadow has no true shape.
Life is indeed mine,
but I have no jurisdiction over dreams.

Drop the dreams. Life is yours; drop the dreams.
Even if the mirror accepts it,
a shadow has no true shape.
Life is indeed yours,
but you have no claim over dreams.

These desires are dreams—just dreams—empty dreams. Now do not kindle a new desire that the mind must be silenced; that liberation must be attained; that nirvana must be achieved; that samadhi must be entered. Do not arouse new desires.

If you let all desires fall away—on the strength of this understanding that no desire ever gets fulfilled, never has—then what will remain within you? Whatever remains—that is samadhi.

The mind is not to be “made” silent. By understanding the mind, peace arises. Peace is a consequence.

It is good that tears flowed abundantly in your eyes. There is no alchemy more purifying than tears. And nothing cleanses the eyes as thoroughly as tears; by no other art do the eyes become so clear. And when the eyes are clear, the Divine begins to be seen. Then what is lacking?

Only dust has settled on the eyes—the dust of thoughts. If the tears of feeling wash away that dust, the mirror is cleaned. The Divine begins to overflow, to glimmer.

Good. The very purpose of the words of the God-intoxicated ones like Malukdas is only this: that you can weep; that you can weep to your heart’s content; that you can drop all social propriety and weep; that you can forget all the superficial talk and superficial formalities and rules, arrangements—everything—and weep.

“Tears flowed, and sleep too went away.”

So be it. Let that sleep be broken forever. I am not talking about the sleep of the night. There is a deeper sleep than that. Spiritually, we are asleep. If that sleep breaks, then the words of the saints have struck exactly upon the heart—they have awakened you.

There is no way to be far now, Manju. Time and space do not separate. Whether you are here or in Nairobi, it will make no difference.
If the feeling is joined, even if someone is on the moon among the stars, they remain connected. And if the feeling is not joined, someone may be sitting right next to you—body pressed to body—and still be thousands of miles away.
Keep your accounting of distance like this: when the feeling is joined, distance is no distance. When the feeling is not joined, even nearness is distance.

And the sleep is about to break; the eyes will fill with more tears; they will be wetter still.

You spoke truly, O ascetic: wine is a deadly poison.
We too used to say the same—until spring had not yet come.

Many here are such that their eyes do not fill. Seeing others’ brimming eyes, they are astonished: “Are they mad?”

You spoke truly, O ascetic: wine is a deadly poison.
We too used to say the same—until spring had not yet come.

They will smile at you until they have news of spring. The day their breeze arrives, the day their spring comes, that day they will understand what the joy of tears is.

Do not hold back your tears because of them. Do not worry about others. Do not be concerned with who says what. One who would move toward the Divine must stop minding other people’s opinions.

You cried here—cry in Nairobi too. Wherever you are, keep crying for the Lord.
No one has come closer to God by any device as they have by crying.
Crying is the easiest path. If one can truly cry, there is nothing else to be done. And from true crying, true laughter arises.

In devotion there comes a moment when crying and laughing go together. First, crying. Then the second moment comes, when crying and laughing go together. Then an utter intoxication happens, because when crying and laughing go together, people think, “Completely mad!”
Then the third moment comes, when only laughter remains.
And then the fourth, final state arrives: neither laughter remains nor crying remains; that is the supreme peace.

But there is no way to go far. One who has come near—there is no way for them to go far.

“Let me kiss the tavern’s threshold, O cupbearer.
After all, we are parting from the tavern.”

No—this tavern is not like that. There is no need to kiss its threshold. Its threshold is vast. Whoever has become a partner in this tavern, whoever has sat here and drunk a little wine—wherever they live, there too they will be able to drink this wine.
This wine is subtle. It does not depend on the outside. The decanter is within you. It is full; you yourself must pour it.

Whether far or near, let remembrance continue.

“If ever you rise in panic, then go to the tavern.
Once you have drunk, then sit again in the remembrance of God.”

Just drink. When there is wakefulness, remember. When intoxication comes, dive into it.

“If ever you rise in panic, then go to the tavern.
Once you have drunk, then sit again in the remembrance of God.”

Time and space are not of value.
This relationship is beyond time and space. The very name of this relationship is sannyas—meaning a relationship beyond time and space; a love that is neither of the body nor of the mind; an attachment that is transcendent; a taste that is not of this earth.
And Manju has tasted such a flavor. In her eyes, in her feeling, in her heart, I have seen the ripples of that taste; I am assured.

Today, only this much.