Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #4

There is no metaphor more beautiful than wine. Don’t be startled by the word “wine.” Devotion is a unique wine—not of grapes, but of the soul. And there is a deep harmony between devotion and wine.

Wine makes you forget; devotion erases. For a moment wine does what devotion does forever. Wine is momentary devotion; devotion is the eternal wine.

Wine has held such fascination down the centuries because when a person is tormented by the ego, burdened by anxieties and pains, it seems there is only one trick left: somehow forget yourself, even if only for a little while. For a little while let this ego be forgotten, these worries and this melancholy be forgotten. Wine throws a veil over the ego for a short time; you don’t remember who you are. For a moment you submerge. But the dip is false—you will be back. Wine cannot annihilate; it can only deceive. You will return, and your worries will not have lessened—perhaps they will have increased. While you were sunk in wine your worries did not sit idle; their work continued, their entanglements grew. New leaves and new branches have sprouted; you will be even more anxious. Perhaps in that anxiety you will drink even more. A vicious circle arises.

But the wine of devotion is still wine—and there the ego is not merely forgotten; it is destroyed.

In wine there is forgetfulness; in devotion there is dissolution. You can never return to being what you were. The ego is gone, sunk—and with it all the knots of worry, sorrow, and pain.

The ego is the root knot. “I am”—this feeling is the root of all trouble. The realization “I am not; God is” becomes the door. That is why I call devotees drunkards. And no better metaphor is possible. Nor am I the only one to say it. From very ancient times it has been understood that on this earth wine is that one element which gives a faint hint of the other world.

The Quran says that in paradise streams of wine flow. That is a symbol. It means streams of incomparable bliss are flowing—once you plunge in, you are lost forever. One dip, and you are gone. Streams of oblivion are flowing. This is the meaning of “streams of wine.”

If heaven is not self-forgetfulness, what else would it be?

And this image fits even more with Baba Malukdas. Maluk says the devotee, the renunciate, walks like a rapt elephant, a mad elephant—overflowing, spilling over with some ineffable nectar.

How can anyone hide the secret of love?
The eyes met—and the steps faltered.

If your eyes meet the Divine, how will you hide it? If you catch even a glimpse of God, where will you hide it? However much you try, it will show. Sitting, standing; speaking, silent; sleeping, waking—it will show. Has anyone ever known God and been able to hide it? There is no way.

It is like lighting a lamp in the dark night and trying to hide it—how will it hide? A flower in bloom trying to hide its fragrance—how will it hide?

How can anyone hide the secret of love?
The eyes met—and the steps faltered.

And the first sign that some connection with the Divine has happened is just this: the steps begin to wobble. A divine intoxication starts to flow. That is why I spoke of wine.

And let me tell you this too: you will not be able to give up worldly wine until you have tasted God’s wine. The day the taste of God’s wine arrives, all other wines become flat and bitter and harsh. No other wine appeals. One who has drunk the Ultimate—nothing else will go down the throat; nothing else satisfies. Everything becomes small.

Once your eyes have met God’s, the urge to lock eyes with anyone in this world dissolves. Once your eyes have met God’s, there remains no attachment, no “love” of this world. When great love arrives, the small leaves of its own accord. When the sun rises, a lamp that could not be hidden in the dark hides by itself. It is as if it never existed. Don’t you see—every night the sky is studded with stars; where do the stars go in the morning? Do you think they go anywhere? They remain where they are. But the sun has risen, an immense light has spread. In that vast light the tiny twinkling stars are lost. They are still there. When the sun departs they will twinkle again. Even now they are twinkling, but before the great light, the little light hides.

The devotee is in ecstasy. The devotee is in a holy stupor. And the marvel of this stupor is that as the stupor deepens, awareness also deepens. This is the miracle, the mystery! On one hand the devotee’s intoxication grows; on the other hand the devotee’s alertness grows. The stupor comes on the side of the ego; and on the side of the soul, wakefulness arrives. On one side the devotee loses; on the other side he gains. The coins of the ego slip from his hand; the coins of the soul fall into his palm.

His gait is intoxicated, his glance intoxicated, his very manner is intoxicated—
as if returning from the tavern.

Watch a devotee coming from the temple, the place of worship—or going toward it. Listen to his inner music. Put your ear close to his heart. You will hear the waves of wine.

Stay with a devotee, and slowly you too will begin to drown. The company of a devotee will “spoil” you. Meera said: “All shame and social propriety I lost—in the company of saints.” In the company of saints all social proprieties fell away.

Meera was from a royal house—in Rajasthan, of all places, where the veil is never lifted—yet she began dancing in the streets. If you won’t call that “wine,” what will you call it? She went mad, became possessed—dancing on roads and crossroads. The face of that queen, which no one had ever seen, was seen by the common crowds in the marketplace as she danced! If her family was upset, it would be no surprise. And if they sent a cup of poison, it was not out of enmity toward Meera—they thought Meera had gone mad, and she was putting the family’s prestige at stake.

But one intoxicated by God—then no other prestige has any value.

Urdu, Persian, Arabic mystics have used the metaphor of wine abundantly. Omar Khayyam is world-famous. You will be astonished to know that Omar Khayyam never drank wine—he speaks of God’s wine. A great injustice happened to him. When FitzGerald first translated Omar Khayyam into English, he did not understand what was meant; he took “wine” to mean wine—just as the questioner has done. Because of FitzGerald’s translation a great misunderstanding spread across the world. It is a unique translation—but full of grave confusions.

The first confusion is just this. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir, a God-intoxicated mendicant. If he had met Baba Malukdas, the two would have hit it off. They would have understood each other—perhaps there would have been no need to speak; they might have simply swayed together, perhaps danced—who knows! With such rare beings, who can predict?

Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir. When he speaks of wine, he is speaking of God. By “tavern” he means the house of God. By “cupbearer” he means God himself.

O Cupbearer, I can’t bear this thirst—
if there is no wine, then give me poison.

And if it is God who pours, then who worries? Even if he gives poison, it is fine.

O Cupbearer, I can’t bear this thirst—
don’t you fret: if there is no wine, then give me poison.

Whatever comes from your hand is nectar.

O preacher, neither do you drink, nor can you make anyone else drink—
what is the point of your “pure wine” of paradise?

Islam says streams of wine flow in heaven. One should ask: what will you do with those streams? Here you teach people, “Do not drink; those who drink will go to hell; they will not reach paradise.” The arithmetic seems clear: those who do not drink here, who have renounced life’s colors, who are not householders—dispassionate, dreary souls—will go to heaven. But what will they do there with streams of wine—those who have never drunk?

O preacher, you do not drink,
nor can you make anyone drink—
what is the point of your pure wine?

These lines are significant. They mean that if you ever want to enter the life of God, do not enter in gloom. In this life, wherever, however, in whatever measure—even if fleeting—taste the joys that arise. In that taste, feel also the taste of God. It is a drop, true—but even the drop is of the ocean. It is fleeting, true—but upon the fleeting falls the shadow of the eternal.

Therefore the devotee says: do not run from life; do not abandon life; live life.

Maluk says: “Live at home as an udasi.” Do not run away; live in the marketplace. “Live at home as an udasi.”

And I explained “udasi”—not “sad,” but ud-āsit: seated near the Supreme. Live in the marketplace, but let your mind remain beside God. Keep your seat with him. Let the body be in the bazaar and the life-breath be with him. Such a person is called an udasi.

Dance, sing, hum. If it is spring, then blossom—like flowers. When trees dance in the winds, you too dance. When the sun rises, hum, sing, pray. Fill your life with joy in every way, and in every joy acknowledge God’s grace—only then will you one day be worthy of heaven’s bliss. Otherwise, you will have no taste for it!

Just think: if all your so-called dreary renouncers and ascetics reach heaven, heaven’s condition will become worse than hell. Perhaps it already has. In hell you might still find a few good people—smiling, humming, singing, dancing. But where will you find them in heaven? Heaven must have become very dreary; dust must have settled there; no festivals must be happening there.

These lines are apt indeed: “O preacher, neither do you drink nor can you make anyone drink—what is the point of your pure wine?”

Learn to drink here. The world is a school. The world is a small courtyard where you learn to fly, so that one day you can fly in the vast courtyard of the Infinite.

There is no intrinsic opposition between this world and God. This is God’s staircase. Of course, one must go beyond—but use the steps. Don’t get stuck on the steps—use them.

Your unease with the word “wine” arose because you felt wine is a worldly thing. But rightly understood, apart from the world we have no other words. Whatever words we use will be worldly. The scriptures say: the bliss of realizing God is like a million times the pleasure of the senses—but then “sensual pleasure” is worldly! They say: the joy of sexual union—multiplied a millionfold. But again the talk is of sex.

We say: the world is transient; God is eternal. But even to measure the eternal, we use the yardstick of the transient. We say: what is had here for a moment is had there forever. But our language will always be of here.

Language belongs to the earth alone. To speak of the sky you still have to use the language of earth.

“Wine” is not a bad word. It is a lovely word. Understand its meaning. It means: take such a plunge into God, drown so deeply in his name that you no longer remember yourself. Let the feeling “I am” be lost. Then you will understand what wine I am speaking of.

What worth can you give to my wine, O preacher?
The one I bless after drinking it—he becomes of paradise.

The wine I am talking about—

What worth can you give to my wine, O preacher?
You have no idea what I mean by “wine”; you cannot value it; you cannot even understand it.
The one I bless after drinking it—he gains the taste of heaven.

Baba Malukdas speaks of that intoxication: if you rest even for a moment in the shade of that ecstasy, you are transformed.

It may surprise you that the discovery of wine is attributed to a Christian saint. In the same way, tea was discovered by a Buddhist monk. Both are deeply symbolic.

The Buddhist tradition is of meditation. Tea awakens; it breaks sleep. Symbolic! It prevents drowsiness. If drowsiness comes, it departs; if a yawn comes, it goes.

Tea is linked with Bodhidharma. About eighteen hundred years ago Bodhidharma went to China—an incomparable Buddhist master. He sat for years in meditation on a mountain called “Ta.” Hence “tea.” And one pronunciation of “Ta” in China is “cha”—hence “chai.” The drink’s name is linked to that mountain.

The story is sweet. A story, yes—but meaningful. One night Bodhidharma was sitting for vigil—he had to stay awake the whole night—and drowsiness began to come. In anger he plucked off his eyelids and threw them away. If there are no eyelids, there is no sleep; if there is nothing to blink, how will blinking happen? “No bamboo, no flute.” He tore off his lids and flung them. The story says: from those very lids the first tea plant sprouted. They lay on the ground, decomposed, and from them the tea plant was born.

Even today when you drink that tea, sleep breaks. He flung away the lids to break sleep.

Think about it. Buddhism—the path of meditation. Therefore a Buddhist monk is not forbidden tea. Even if he does nothing else, a Buddhist monk certainly drinks tea—many times a day. Morning meditation begins with tea and ends with tea.

You might be surprised—tea and a Buddhist monk! Shouldn’t a monk avoid tea? But for centuries monks have drunk it and used it. In Japan they have given tea a truly religious significance. They turned the drinking of tea into a meditation process. Making tea, offering tea, drinking tea—this can take hours. It is done with such awareness that in the very process of tea, meditation happens. They call it the “tea ceremony,” the “festival of tea.” Those who have the means—just as in India people set up a small shrine at home—have a separate tea-house in a quiet corner of the garden, where people go as if going to a temple. Because it is meditation—wakefulness.

And the tale of the discovery of wine is that a Christian fakir discovered it; his name was Dionysus. This too is fitting, because Christianity is a path of devotion. These symbols are very apt.

On the path of devotion there is holy forgetfulness; on the path of meditation there is wakefulness. The ultimate result is the same. If you keep walking the path of meditation, awakening and awakening, you will discover that on one side you are waking, and on the other side you are losing yourself. Your focus will be on awakening; the losing will happen like a shadow.

On the path of devotion you keep losing—and you find that on one side awakening begins to arrive. Losing will be your process; awakening will be the result. In the end losing and awakening happen together, like two sides of the same coin.

The devotee’s attention rests on one side; the meditator’s on the other. But the coin is the same.

So, since I am speaking of Maluk, I chose the symbol of wine. Understand it.

It did happen. The reason was India’s varna system. India has suffered under the varna system; even now it is not free of it. That is why the earliest tradition of saints in India was Brahmin. The rishis and seers—of the Vedas and Upanishads—were Brahmins. There was a belief that only the highest class was worthy and eligible to enter the realm of religion. Because of this belief, thousands, millions, hundreds of millions were deprived of a living relationship with the Divine.

Whoever is human is qualified to attain God. Being human itself confers that qualification. Beyond being human, no other qualification is needed. It is not necessary to be a Brahmin.

But the prevailing notion in this country was that only a Brahmin is so pure that he can move toward God; hence he is called “Brahmin”—one who can go toward Brahman. The rest—Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Shudra—were cut off; they were declared to have no relationship with Brahman.

But such a thing could not go on for long. Naturally, the first revolt came in the time of Buddha and Mahavira. The revolt came from the Kshatriyas. They were number two. Rebellion always comes from number two.

Remember, people think revolt comes from below. Revolt never comes from the bottom; it comes from number two. If Indira is to be unseated, it is Morarji Desai who does it—he is number two. Rebellion always comes from number two. The one standing at the very end has neither hope nor confidence that he can dislodge the one at the top. The one at number two is the dangerous one, because he feels that only a single step separates him from being number one. The goal isn’t far; it’s so close that if he misses it, he alone is responsible—no one else.

So the greatest danger comes from those who are close, not from those who are far.

Closest to the Brahmin were the Kshatriyas, the number two class. They began to feel: What kind of arrangement is this—that only Brahmins can attain Brahman? It was necessary to rebel against it.

In those days “Brahman” was the highest attainment; everything else was secondary. So the Kshatriyas rebelled: Jainism and Buddhism are the outcomes of that rebellion. All twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are Kshatriyas; not a single one is a Brahmin. Buddha was a Kshatriya; and in the stories he told about his twenty-four previous births, he is a Kshatriya each time—never a Brahmin.

This was a major revolt. Therefore Hinduism has been angrier with Jains and Buddhists than with anyone else; it could not be otherwise. There even came a time when the Kshatriyas badly shattered the Brahmin-centered religion.

This revolt came from the Kshatriyas. But when Kshatriyas began to be recognized as enlightened—at first the Brahmins would not accept it at all. In Brahmin scriptures they have not even mentioned Mahavira. How could they mention him! Even when they did mention Buddha, it was with great trickery and diplomacy. They had to mention Buddha, because his influence was so vast that it couldn’t be completely denied. Mahavira’s influence was not so large; his circle was smaller. His method was such that the masses could not easily enter—it was austere. Buddha’s method was more easy-going; millions could enter. And millions did. This fact was so massive that it could not be denied outright. So they denied it very cleverly.

The Brahmins fabricated a story: when God created the world, he made hell and heaven. He set the devil as a guard over hell. But thousands and millions of years passed, and no one came to hell—because no one committed sin. The devil went to God’s feet and said: Why have you posted me there! No one ever comes or goes. Close that office. Free me. I am needlessly tied up—no work, no occupation.

God said: All right, I’ll make an arrangement for you. God took the Buddha-incarnation and led people astray. When people became corrupted, they started going to hell. Since then hell has been so crowded that there’s a queue! No one even heads toward heaven; there’s no room.

A very clever maneuver: they accepted Buddha as the tenth avatar, and alongside it they inserted a device—do not follow Buddha. Acknowledge that he is God’s avatar, but that he came to corrupt people.

See how politics can play its games! In this, they even managed to show respect to Buddha—had to, because so many millions worshipped him. But the respect could not be heartfelt, for the Brahmins were deeply enraged. And in Shankaracharya’s time they took their revenge. They uprooted Buddhism. Jainism shrank into a small, negligible religion, and Buddhism they completely uprooted from India.

It was beyond Brahmin imagination that any Kshatriya would proclaim: We are avatars; we are Tirthankaras! Tirthankaras and avatars—the heirs and rightful claimants of the Divine—were supposed to be only Brahmins. But once the Kshatriyas had climbed the ladder, number two were the Vaishyas. The revolt began there. They said: If Kshatriyas can go, what fault is ours that we cannot?

Thus a second revolution took place from the Vaishya side: Vaishya saints, merchant saints, arose. Once Vaishya saints began to be recognized, the Shudras came close to the position as well. Then came Shudra saints—Raidas (Ravidas), and Gora—and other Shudra saints.

In the medieval period the saints were Vaishyas and Shudras: first Vaishyas, then Shudras. And this had to happen. In this way humanity proclaimed its own nature.

God is everyone’s right—a birthright. Neither Brahmin nor Kshatriya, neither Vaishya nor Shudra, has any exclusive claim. It belongs to all.

No one can stake a claim over the Divine. God is nobody’s property, nobody’s ownership. That is why it happened.

But even now the old structures have not completely fallen away; thus a Brahmin hesitates to accept Kabir as a saint, hesitates to accept Nanak as an avatar. Sikhism had to break away as a separate religion, because Nanak could not be accepted. And as for Ravidas the chamar—he was outright unacceptable.

Once, in one town, the chamars invited me to speak on Ravidas. The people in whose house I was staying tried hard to dissuade me: don’t go there at all—where are you going, to speak among chamars! They were very wealthy. I said, they have invited me, so I am going. They used to accompany me everywhere. That evening they said, today there’s some work. I said, I know there is absolutely no work—you’re afraid to go among chamars.

Their wife used to trail after me wherever I went; that day too… She said, no, please forgive me. They sent me alone with the driver. There too I was astonished to see that apart from the chamars not a single person had come to listen. There were ten or twenty chamars. In that same town when I spoke, twenty thousand, twenty-five thousand people would listen. Just the day before, twenty-five thousand had listened—and the next day not even twenty-five!

Even now our assumptions are the same: who will go to a gathering of chamars? Who will sit with chamars? And we simply cannot accept that Ravidas too attained the Divine.

We have staked our claims upon God.

In medieval India the greatest revolution occurred. From the lower classes came the proclamation that anyone can be God-realized. What you do, what family you were born into, what your color and features are, whether you have wealth, position, prestige or not—none of this has anything to do with God. If you are filled with thirst and call out in longing, God will listen. Longing is heard. Thirst is heard. The voice of the heart is heard.

First, Maluk’s saying has not been understood correctly.
“Apna sa dukh sabka manai, tahi milai avinashi.”
There can be two meanings. One is the ordinary: consider another’s suffering as your own. That is the straight meaning. If that is the meaning, then your question is exactly right: it is impossible. How will you take another’s pain as your own?
If someone else has a headache, how will you take it as your own headache? And if you yourself have never had cracked heels, you cannot really know the pain of someone whose heels are split. If a thorn pierces you, you know it; if it pierces another, he knows it.
How will you make another’s pain your own? And even if you force yourself to do so, it will have no real consequences. Has anyone found the Imperishable like that?
If that were the meaning, the matter would become impossible. So what does it mean? Understand it through an incident.

Ramakrishna was crossing the Ganges at Dakshineshwar in a small boat with a few devotees and the boatman. Suddenly, midstream, Ramakrishna began to cry out, “Don’t beat me! Why are you beating me?” The devotees said, “Have you gone mad? Who is beating you?” They were startled, stood up, and said, “Paramahamsa Deva, what are you saying? We would beat you? Who could beat you?”
But tears kept flowing from Ramakrishna’s eyes. He opened his shawl and said, “Look at my back.” There were two whip marks—bleeding. The devotees were alarmed: “Who has struck you?” There was no one there to do it—only the four of them in the boat, looking at each other, who would have done it?
Ramakrishna said, “Look over there.” On the ghat, some men were beating someone. The boat reached the bank, the devotees ran to the man being beaten and lifted his shirt. Exactly the same two whip marks were on his back. They lifted Ramakrishna’s shawl—the marks were identical, a mirror copy.
What will you call this?

In English there are two words: sympathy and empathy. Sympathy means: you feel for the other. Empathy means: you feel as the other. Psychology has thought deeply about this. Sympathy works like this: you see another’s suffering and infer that he has a headache—you notice the furrows on his forehead, the sadness in his eyes, the heaviness of his mood, and you conclude: he must have a headache. When you wore such an expression, you too had a headache—so you infer. But he could be acting.
What do actors do? They show a headache with no headache. They display love without love.

Mulla Nasruddin once went to a play. His wife kept poking him with her elbow, saying, “Look! How much the hero loves the heroine—always on his knees, calling her ‘goddess’!” Naturally, the wife nudged him: “See, that is love. Such a thing never occurs to you!”
Nasruddin said, “Keep quiet. Do you know how much he is paid for this? And you want me to do it for free!”
The wife said, “But they are actually husband and wife.”
Nasruddin said, “Good Lord! If they are actually husband and wife, then this actor is certainly strong—truly a great actor. To show so much love when real husbands and wives—where is the love there? If it happens anywhere, it rarely happens between real husband and wife!”
“So he must be a master—nothing in the heart, yet he shows it so convincingly that it seems it should be there.”
Acting means exactly this: to show what is not.

So it may be that the other man has no headache at all; he is merely acting. No stomachache; only the posture of pain. But your only method is inference: when you held such a posture, your stomach hurt, so you think, “His stomach hurts.” This is inference. If you have attachment to this person—your son, your father, your mother—sympathy arises. But it is sympathy—an inference.

Empathy is a bigger thing. Empathy means: what is happening to him, precisely that happens to you.
When does this happen? When the ‘I–You’ feeling disappears, when there is no wall of ego in between.
This happened to Ramakrishna because there was no wall in between. When that man was beaten, it did not arise in Ramakrishna: “Why are they beating that poor fellow?” He cried out: “Why are you beating me?” Understand the difference. That is empathy.

There have been many experiments on this empathy. You may have heard of incidents Christians call stigmata. This has happened for centuries and even now there are people in whom it occurs.
In Bavaria there is a woman still alive who manifests stigmata. Stigmata means: just as Jesus was crucified and nails were driven into his hands and feet and he was hung on the cross, sometimes similar wounds spontaneously appear on the hands and feet of some devotees of Jesus, and blood begins to flow. The wounds are not made; they arise—before thousands of witnesses. Blood flows, then the wounds vanish; the bleeding stops.
In Bavaria there is a woman, Therese Neumann. She has been studied for thirty years now. Every Friday—the day Jesus was crucified—wounds appear on her hands and feet, and blood begins to flow. In these thirty years so much blood has flowed, yet she has not become the least bit weak. And the great wonder is that doctors have tested in every way to rule out fraud. For exactly twenty-four hours the blood flows, and after twenty-four hours the wounds heal and disappear as if they had never been—no scar remains. This is empathy.
Such identification with Jesus, such ecstasy of feeling with Jesus, that Jesus is no longer separate: “I am Jesus.” If that feeling becomes deep, so deep that no wall remains—not even a veil, not even a thin screen—the result happens.
The human mind has a great capacity. You become what you truly think. What is planted in thought as a seed begins to happen in your life.
So if someone has such a profound feeling—“I am one with Jesus”—it is no surprise if his body assumes the same condition Jesus’ body had, even two thousand years later. Jesus has nothing to do with it; it is the state of this woman’s feeling.
This is called empathy.

Maluk’s saying—“Apna sa dukh sabka manai, tahi milai avinashi”—is not only a formula for sympathy; it is also a formula for empathy. Maluk is saying: you and the other are not two. Here only One abides. The one speaking within me and the one listening within you are not two. Over here He speaks; over there He listens. This whole dialogue is a monologue. God is speaking only to God. The same One is green in the tree; the same One is red in the flower; the same One comes as a bird and hums a song.
This whole world is one—indivisibly one. Malukdas points toward the realization of this indivisible: “to him the Imperishable is met.” To the one to whom this indivisible is revealed, that we are one, there is no other here; the “other” is an illusion. There is neither ‘self’ nor ‘other’. That One alone is expressing Himself in countless forms, in countless places. That One comes as many. All these forms are His; He is the master of many disguises.
“Apna sa dukh sabka manai, tahi milai avinashi.”
He will find the Imperishable. Note, he is not telling you to try, by effort, to consider the other’s pain as your own. He is saying: gradually bring down the walls of ‘self’ and ‘other’ so that what is within the other and what is within you no longer appear separate.
These boundaries are hollow. They are like the fence you put around a plot and say, “This is my land; that is the neighbor’s.” The earth is one. Your fence does not cut or separate the earth.

On a map you draw the border: this is India, this is Pakistan. A day earlier it was all India; a day later India and Pakistan became separate. On August 15 the line is drawn. The earth is right where it was; the earth is not cut—only a line on a map. Yet look at the difference! A great difference is created. Division is born. If trouble arises in Pakistan, you feel pleased. If misfortune comes to India, people in Pakistan feel pleased!
When Bangladesh broke off from Pakistan, India was delighted. Because of lines, otherwise everything is where it always was. No one breaks, no one joins. But man makes great games—and gradually forgets that the game is a game.

You have seen it: playing chess, swords are drawn. There is nothing in chess—elephants and horses are wooden. But even in chess, life is wagered. Enmities are formed over chess; they continue for generations. And you forget that you set out wooden toys—or if rich, ivory—but all is play.

Likewise in society you have drawn lines: Hindu, Muslim; Brahmin, Shudra—line upon line, and then you shrink into a tiny “I.” This “I” appears only because of the lines. Remove the lines and you are a wave of this vast ocean.

“Apna sa dukh sabka manai, tahi milai avinashi.”
The deeper meaning is: the one who forgets the “I–Thou” feeling, who sees “I” in “you” and “you” in “me,” meets the Imperishable—indeed, has met it. Then you will not find anything impossible in this.

And the day you take others’ sorrows as your own, that day others’ joys also become yours; others’ love becomes yours; others’ bliss becomes yours. You are needlessly a miser—confined within a small boundary; the vast play can be yours.
Swami Ramatirtha used to say: “I gave up one little courtyard, and the whole universe became mine.”
Drop boundaries; relate to the boundless. Wherever you see a boundary, know some illusion has crept in—for here there are none. We are sitting here, so many people; you breathe in and call it “my breath.” A moment before your neighbor was breathing the same air. A moment later someone else will.
What is yours? Even breath is not yours. My breath was within you; now it is in my lungs; a moment later in someone else’s.
The body you call yours was lying as dust; it will again lie as dust. The pear now on the tree is the tree’s; you eat it, and in twenty-four hours it becomes yours—digested, turning into flesh and marrow: “yours,” “you.” But twenty-four hours before it was not yours. Then one day you die; your grave becomes earth; and on that grave a pear tree grows! Then you become pears, and your sons and grandsons eat them.
Where is the boundary? All is intertwined. The pear you ate—who knows—it may have been your great-grandfather!
We are eating each other; digesting each other; linked to each other. A moment ago a thought was in me; I spoke it, and it became yours. I no longer own it; you do. You will speak it to someone else, and he will own it. Thus thoughts are transmitted; prana is transmitted; bodies too are exchanged and circulated. We are interconnected here.

Think: if you were left absolutely alone, could you survive even a moment? If the sun did not rise, you would freeze. If air did not come, your throat would choke. Without food, you would begin to die. Without water—gone. Connected!
Your life flows in the rivers, for they quench your thirst. Your life flows in the winds, for they give you breath. Your life flows in the sun’s rays, for they animate your vitality. All is connected. Those who see correctly say: the entire existence is interconnected. Move a blade of grass, and distant stars tremble. All is connected.

Understand it like a spider’s web. The Upanishadic seers said: the world is the spider’s web—and they chose the symbol well, because the spider spins the web out of itself and spreads it. So God has spun the world out of Himself; it is like a web. God is the great spider, spinning His web.
And you have seen: touch the web on one side and the whole web trembles; its farthest edges quiver. Such is existence.

If you cause suffering to someone, you will be astonished to find that suffering returns to you, because you too sit on the same web. Therefore the doctrine of karma has great significance. Do not cause suffering to another, for unknowingly you are arranging to suffer yourself. Do not dig a pit for another, for you yourself will fall into it some day. Even if “the other” falls, it is you who have fallen.

But we are like children. If a small child makes a mistake with one hand, he slaps it with the other. He himself errs and slaps himself. It is his own hand, his own cheek, yet he punishes.
When we punish another, we are slapping our own face—because there is no “other” here.

To see this oneness, to recognize this indivisibility, and to live it gradually—then the Imperishable is found. It is not impossible.
Yes, if you decide to “act as if,” you will go wrong. The greatest mistake in religion is precisely this.

Mahavira saw: all is one. From that “all is one” arose ahimsa—nonviolence. Nonviolence means: whom to hurt now? How? There is no other here; I alone am. So all violence is self-violence—and who wants to injure oneself?
Mahavira began to place each step carefully lest an ant be crushed—because he saw the ant as a part of himself. He would not turn in bed at night, lest in the dark he press some tiny creature. He gave up meat. He was born into a Kshatriya household, so he must have eaten meat—but he renounced it. Beyond that, he would not even pluck unripe fruit. He would take only fruit that fell of itself from the tree, ripe—because to pluck an unripe fruit inflicts some pain on the tree. Unripe means the tree is not yet ready to give; you would have to snatch—violence. So wait a little; fruit ripens of itself; what is the hurry? When the tree itself gives, then take.

That ahimsa arose from the feeling of indivisible oneness. But later, a Jain also practices ahimsa—filters water, watches each step. Yet his ahimsa lacks the feeling of the Whole. His ahimsa is not ahimsa; it is fear—“If I kill an ant I will rot in hell.” There is fear, not awareness. If he were convinced that the rules had changed and that killing ants no longer sends one to hell, he would drop these worries. He has no real concern for the ant. He does not see the ant’s pain as his own. He is only afraid of consequences—afraid for himself.

That is why it often happens that when young Jains go to the West, they begin to eat meat—at least eggs. They see so many people eating and drinking—will all these go to hell? It doesn’t fit. If billions are going to hell, what’s the harm? We’ll go along with the crowd!
The “faith” that worked here does not work in the West, because they see everyone eating and drinking. It can’t be that all are headed for hell. The faith begins to crack. It was false; therefore it breaks.

A Jain monk once came to see me. He said, “The youths who go West start eating meat. How can we stop this?” I said, “There is no way to stop it. It only reveals one thing: do not be too sure of those who abstain here. They too abstain only because of circumstances. They will eat as well—only the situation hasn’t presented itself yet. The conditioning here—family fear, social air—restrains them. But not awareness; fear holds them back. And can any revolution in life come out of fear?”

So there is a difference between Mahavira’s ahimsa and the Jain’s ahimsa. Leave aside lay Jains; even among Jain monks there is that same difference. The monk filters water, avoids moving at night—out of fear. No glimpse of awareness. He is shrunken, frightened.
And remember: no one becomes religious out of fear. Fear makes one shrink; contract. One becomes religious by expanding—and expansion comes with fearlessness, not with fear.
Notice: whenever you are afraid, you shrink and become small. When fearless, you expand; your chest swells.
One whose fearlessness is complete has a chest as vast as this cosmos. He spreads over the whole universe—he becomes universal.

If it seems so to you, then it will be exactly as it seems to you. It will not happen because I say so; it will happen because you believe so. If you have formed a negative notion, that is what will happen. If you say, “It will never happen”—and that is your conviction—then how can it happen? Not even God can break your conviction. They say that even the Omnipotent does not have the power to shatter your belief.

If you sit convinced that it will not happen—that samadhi will not descend upon you; that the vision of God will not be yours; that union with the Eternal will not take place—if you are holding such a notion, then it will not happen.

What happens is what you form a conception for. Be alert to this. Your conception is your future. Your conception is your destiny. So do not form negative notions.

An atheist never meets God. Not because God is not. The atheist thinks, “If He existed, I would have met Him. I haven’t met Him yet—so He isn’t.” The atheist does not meet God because of the conception of atheism.

The notion of atheism is such that—even if God were to be met—it would not allow him to see; he would see something else; he would interpret it differently.

I have heard this: Shirdi’s Sai Baba stayed in a mosque. No one knew for certain whether he was Hindu or Muslim. Who can tell of a saint—Hindu or Muslim? Where boundaries cease—that is where the saint is.

Before coming to the mosque he wished to stay at a temple, but the priest could not be sure who this man was, what he was like, so he turned him away. Sai then stayed in the mosque. What is temple, what is mosque? All are his own. No one drove him from the mosque, so he remained; it became his home.

A Brahmin ascetic used to come daily for his darshan, and only after darshan would he eat. At times the crowds delayed the darshan, but until he had touched Baba’s feet he would not eat. Sometimes it would be evening before he could touch the feet, then he would return and only then eat.

One day Sai Baba said to him, “Beloved, don’t trouble yourself so much; I will come and give you darshan there at your place.” The man was delighted. He said, “Then tomorrow—I will wait there tomorrow. Blessed am I that you will grant me darshan there!”

The next morning he cooked, bathed early, prepared the meal, and sat at his door to receive Sai Baba. No one came; a dog came. The dog tried to enter, and he took up a stick to drive it off, lest it defile everything, lest it put its mouth in the food. And Sai Baba had not yet arrived. He even landed a few blows on the dog. The dog still tried to get inside, even after the beating.

When Sai did not come and evening fell, the Brahmin ran to him. “You did not come! You promised and did not keep your word.” Sai said, “I did come. Look at my back! You gave me four blows. Even then I tried to get in, but you wouldn’t let me.”

Then he began to weep. He remembered; he recalled that he had not looked closely. The dog had some uncommon quality; it was no ordinary dog. Now, in retrospect, he felt there was something uncanny in the dog’s sound, some sensation like the feeling in Sai Baba’s presence. “But I am foolish, dull-witted—why didn’t I understand! Forgive me. Give me one more chance tomorrow. I will not make such a mistake again.”

Sai Baba said, “As you wish; I will come tomorrow.”

So he sat—now watching for a dog. Our notions! He kept looking to see if a dog might appear. No dog was to be seen—silence all around. Stray dogs did pass now and then; in India there is no shortage of strays. That day all were absent! He sat with the plate set, thinking, “If a dog comes today, I will offer the plate at once. First I will feed the dog, then I will eat.”

No dog came. A beggar came—leprous—and he stank terribly. The Brahmin shouted from afar, “Brother, do not come here! Stay outside, move on. We are expecting someone else. Don’t stand here.” Still the beggar tried to enter. Then the Brahmin grew angry. “I’m telling you: move on, don’t come in. I will smash your head. I’m waiting for someone else. Don’t bring ill omen.”

Evening came; no sign of Sai Baba. He went again. Sai Baba said, “Brother, you will not recognize me. I came; you did not let me in.” He said, “Maharaj, you are mistaken; I kept watch with unblinking eyes. A beggar did come in between—but I drove him off lest in talking with him I miss you in the form of a dog and you come and go, and I miss again.”

Sai Baba said, “I came in the form of that beggar.”

We see only what our notion allows. We see only so much as our notion permits. If you have decided that God is not, then God is not. Even if God tries in a thousand ways, dances before you, you will say, “He is not.” You will see something else. You will interpret it somehow. You will think, “Some man has gone mad,” or, “Am I dreaming? Have I eaten some herb that has clouded me? How can this be?”

If you have concluded that it will never happen, then it will never happen. You are the master. Nothing here can go against you.

I say to you: it can happen now, it can happen here. Your say.

“We met thus, yet the meeting could not happen. The lips trembled, but no words could be spoken.”

But what is there to talk about? If you meet the Divine, what will you say? Will there be anything to say? That the lips tremble—enough. The lips tremble—more than enough. What else will you do? Is there anything to say? If tears flow—enough. If you dance—enough.

“We met thus, yet the meeting could not happen.”
What of “meeting”? We have nothing to say. We have nothing to give. We have nothing even to ask.

But if, in the meeting, you are eager, if you want to have some particular “experience” of God, you will miss.

However He comes, in whatever form He comes; and whatever spontaneous surge arises within you in that moment—that is the truth, that alone is truth in that way.

If the lips tremble—good. If they do not—also good. If you fall silent—good. If the eyes open—good. If the eyes close—good. Speak—fine; do not speak—fine.

Only this much trust is needed: that it will be.

And do not plan in advance what you will say. No rehearsal will help you. All rehearsals are false.

Union with the Divine is no performance. You cannot prepare beforehand. Whatever you prepare will prove false. Go straight, guileless, like a child. Simply lift your eyes toward Him with an innocent heart.

If you ask Maluk the way, Maluk’s way is the way of the lover:

Whoever comes from your side, I ask only this:
Tell me, was there at least a mention of me there?

The devotee moves with the conviction that just as I have accepted Him, so He has accepted me. I am His; how could He reject me? The devotee moves with the faith that it is not only I who burn to meet Him; there too there is fire. Not only here is there thirst; there, too, there is thirst. And remember, if the thirst were only on our side, union could not be. If there were indifference on His side, how would union be? It takes two hands to clap. When God and devotee both run toward each other, then union happens. If only the devotee runs while God does not care—finished. If God runs while the devotee does not care—that will not do either.

God is already running toward you; He is the life of your life. Otherwise how could anything be? Just lift your eyes toward Him. Take one step—He has already taken a thousand.

Whoever comes from your side, I ask only this:
Tell me, was there at least a mention of me there?

What a troublesome thing love is—
in speaking of it, the eyes filled.

If the lips flutter—enough. If the eyes fill—enough. What more will you do? Do not be greedy. A glimpse—enough. Not even a glimpse—if only His remembrance comes, that too is no small thing. How many are unfortunate who never even remember, whose lips never once utter the Name, in whose life the Name never resounds?

You are fortunate that at least His Name does come; the remembrance does arise; you do think of Him.

All right then—so you think the meeting will never happen; and still you think of Him! Even this is not a small blessing. There are some who do not even think this much.

There are three kinds of people in the world. First, those who think: union will be, it must be. Their feeling is unwavering—so it does happen. Second, those who think it will not be. It will not be. But still, at least they think—something at least, negative though it is. Third, those who are filled with indifference, who do not think at all; for them, God never even becomes a question. If you speak to them of God, they look at you as if you are talking nonsense: “Speak of something useful, something practical.” They don’t even go so far as to say that God is not.

Nietzsche wrote: there were days when people believed in God; and there were days when people did not believe in God. Now a time has come when people do not even consider God worth considering.

Who will even take the trouble to say “no”! People say, “Yes, perhaps. Now let’s talk business.”

Everything depends on your conception. And when everything depends on conception, why make it negative? Why not make it affirmative! And devotion is an affirmative conception.

The true nights are those nights, the true days those days,
that pass in your remembrance.

Remember. Drop your worry about meeting or not meeting. Just remember. Just call.

O breeze, carry this message to Him:
Since you left, there has been neither morning nor evening here.

When remembrance arises, be filled with thrill. When remembrance fades, weep and say:

O breeze, carry this message to Him:
Since you left, there has been neither morning nor evening here.

And still I will say this to you: even a negative conception is better than indifference. At least there is something—let it be enmity if nothing else.

Do not sever all connection with me—
if nothing else, let there be enmity.

Let it be enmity then. Let there be a negative relationship, if not a positive one. Your back is turned to God; well then, at least there is a back! If there is a back, someday there will be a face.

But let the matter be made simple. Why not make it simple? Why not turn toward Him?

I tell you again and again: it can happen now, it can happen here—only so that this feeling becomes deepened in you: that it can happen whenever you wish it to. Your longing must be total. Your longing must have urgency. Your longing must have strength.

And when your union happens, you will be astonished: you were not the only one eager to meet; He too was eager. For ages, it was not only you who pined—you made Him pine as well.

When I heard you too remember me—
what can I say, my astonishment knew no bounds!

Know this: you will be stunned the day you discover that God too remembers you; Existence is calling you.

From the One from whom we have grown distant—not only have we lost something; He too has lost something.

Therefore I say to you: the happening can take place now, it can take place here. If it were only a matter of your lone journey, perhaps it could never happen. I take your question in just this sense.

You are thinking you must do it by your effort alone—who knows about God? Whether He thinks of us or not? Whether He even knows of us? Whether He has any relish in meeting us or not? If only we have to travel, the road becomes very long; and because the road is lonely, it becomes long.

But the essence of all the saints’ experience is this: whoever attained union said on return, “We were not the only ones who remembered Him; He too was calling us.”

Therefore I say: attend, contemplate. It can happen now; it can happen here. I will keep repeating this so that it keeps striking; drop by drop, the ocean is formed.

Whatever you did—you did not really do. You must have just gone through the motions. Otherwise, if you had truly done chanting, austerity, devotion, meditation—and still nothing had happened? Ah, even one would have been enough. There was no need to swallow so many medicines. You don’t have an illness of that kind.
You say you have drunk down the whole dispensary!
There was no such need; you didn’t have to dig so many wells.

One day Jalaluddin Rumi went with his disciples to a field near the ashram and said, “Learn a lesson here. See what is happening!”
The farmer in that field must have been a bit of a crank. He wanted a well, so he dug one—eight or ten feet—and then said, “There’s no water here!” So he began a second well. In this way he had dug about ten wells. He ruined the entire field. And now he was digging the eleventh!
Jalaluddin said, “Learn something from this farmer. Now he is digging the eleventh. He’ll go eight or ten feet again and then conclude there is no water. Where does water appear at eight or ten feet? You must go fifty feet. If he had kept digging one well, he would have reached water long ago. But he digs one and abandons it halfway. He sees only soil coming up; no water. First, only soil comes up.”

The truth is, when you dig a well, first you pull up the trash that has settled on the surface. Then come pebbles and stones. Then dry earth. Then damp earth. Now there is news of water. From the moment the soil becomes moist—the news of water has begun.
From the moment tears begin to rise in your eyes and the heart grows moist—the news of water has begun.
Even when water first appears, it is not fit to drink. It is muddy, turbid.
But once the water has come, the drinkable water will also come. Keep digging. Soon clear springs become available. But digging is required.

It seems to me that… you say, “I have done japa, tapas, bhakti, dhyana—everything.”
You have dug many pits, but you have not dug a well. And so you say, “I found nothing anywhere.”
Your complaint sounds as if Existence has deceived you! “I found nothing.”
Now that you have come here—well and good. Here, dig a well; don’t dig a pit.

And already you are being clever again! You say, “I have come to your refuge; rescue me.” What you are really saying is, “Now you dig my well.”
Drop your old trick. You will have to dig the well yourself. I can give only this assurance: I will not let you quit halfway. You may try to run—an old habit; you have done so many japas and tapases; after two or four days you’ll say, “Now let’s go!”
My only assurance is that I will do my utmost to stop you. But the well—you will have to dig it.

This is a well no one else can dig. It is your well—the well of your own soul. You must dig it within yourself.

What is needed is urgency, single-pointedness, continuity, patience, waiting, prayer. And once you begin, do not be in a hurry to turn back.
What hurry is there to return? What will you gain by returning?

Many people keep doing just this. They do something for two days, something else for four days. They are in a great rush! They want it instant. Because of this hurry, nothing comes to completion. No plant can put down proper roots.

You have seen little children. Sometimes they bury a mango pit. But they have no patience! After a little while they dig it up to see whether the sapling has sprouted or not. At night they cannot sleep. Many times the thought arises: perhaps the sprout has come! In the morning they run and dig again to check.
The plant will never sprout. Let the pit lie in the soil; let it decompose. Don’t keep exposing it again and again.

Do not be in such a hurry to attain. It will come. Do your full labor. Do not leave any lack on your side.

Nor are so many medicines needed. Sometimes too many medicines do harm rather than good. And a medicine that is not for you is harmful.

You have done japa, tapas, dhyana, bhakti—everything. At least consider: what is in tune with me? What resonates with my wavelength? What ties the knot with my feeling? See this first. Don’t rush to start digging.
Look a little: will water for me be found here? And if water is found here, will it be my water? Look a little, test a little, understand a little…

If prayer arises in you simply, easily; if the flow of trust is natural; if doubting is difficult for you and faith comes readily—then move toward bhakti, prayer, worship, adoration.
If, on the contrary, doubt comes with great intensity and faith is hard to establish—try as you may, faith keeps slipping away, your feet keep sliding—then forget about bhakti. Then choose meditation; choose the path of awareness, where faith is not an essential prerequisite.

But first, recognize yourself rightly. Before you set out on the journey, do a little self-observation. This is not difficult. If you sit quietly and reflect a little, it will become clear what is suitable and right for you.

Do not quench your thirst from every vessel, O thirsty one—
If you keep changing the cup, even nectar turns to poison.
Even if a thunderbolt strikes the rain-bird, still it will not
ease its ache with any water other than the one it longs for.
A stain fell upon the moon, yet to this day it has not
abandoned the courtyard of night to go elsewhere.
Each here stands firm and unmoving upon their vow—
then why do you alone wander here and there?
Do not keep changing roads to complete your journey.
Not every path shortens the distance to the goal.
Do not lay your devotion at every doorstep, O mad one!
Not every temple’s “god” is worthy of worship!
Do not quench your thirst from every vessel, O thirsty one—
If you keep changing the cup, even nectar turns to poison.

First, recognize yourself rightly. In one illness, poison becomes nectar; in another, nectar becomes poison.
What is your illness?
If you are filled with the illness of doubt, then the medicine of meditation will work. You will not be able to walk the path of faith.
If within you a spring of trust is flowing with a bright, tinkling music, if you easily trust—no matter if someone robs you or deceives you or does anything to you—still your faith remains unbroken, undestroyed, then through bhakti you will set out as if without even rowing. As when one opens the sail of a boat, sits watching the wind’s direction—and the boat moves; the wind takes it.

Do not go against the grain. Do not entangle yourself in what is not suitable for you. It seems you will entangle yourself—in useless oppositions.
“I have done japa, tapas, bhakti, dhyana—everything.”
One alone would do. There is no need to keep changing doors and gateways.

The first thing I want to say to you is fundamental; only after that do the right steps follow. First, recognize yourself.

In the world there are two kinds of natures: the masculine nature and the feminine nature. All existence is divided in two—female and male. And the human dilemma is that the human being is made from both. Half of you comes from the mother and half from the father. So both are present within you—female and male. No man is only male; alongside the man there is the woman. And no woman is only female; alongside the woman there is the man. The difference is a matter of degree. You may be fifty-five percent masculine and forty-five percent feminine. That is all. Or you may be sixty percent feminine and forty percent masculine. The difference is in quantity, not in quality.

That is why sometimes it happens that someone was a man and suddenly a transformation happens and he becomes feminine; or someone was a woman and suddenly becomes masculine.
And now scientists say it is not difficult. By hormonal change a woman can be made into a man and a man into a woman. And in the future, before this century ends, many will go through such changes—because people get bored. Bored with being a woman, they become a man; bored with being a man, they become a woman. There will be more freedom. Having lived one style of life, they will want to try the other.
This transformation is possible because you are both. The human being is bi-sexed.

This means that in religion too two paths open from within you—one masculine, one feminine. The masculine path is of meditation; the feminine path is of love.

So recognize rightly within yourself. And remember: do not assume that because you are physically a woman, the path of love will by necessity be right for you. The likelihood is greater, but it is not compulsory. And do not assume that because you are physically a man, the path of meditation will be easy. The likelihood is greater, but it is not compulsory. You must recognize rightly within yourself.

There are many men with great feminine softness within. And many women with great masculine hardness within.
There is nothing wrong in this. As it is—good. Recognize it rightly and walk accordingly. Either meditation—or love. Choose between these two. Once this choice is made rightly, then pour your whole energy into it. Do not wander here and there. Do not keep digging pits in different places. One medicine is enough.

And you say, “Now I have come to your refuge. Rescue me.”
I will give you full support; but you will have to come out yourself. Because into this pit you went by yourself; I did not take you there. If you wish, you can come out without support as well. But if it seems difficult, you can take the support of someone’s hand. Even then, you must be the one to come out.

God cannot be obtained on loan; not through someone else. And it is good that it cannot be had through another. If God could be obtained on loan, all value would be lost. The more labor you pour into attaining him, the more bliss you will experience.

It is good that to reach God we must climb the mountain by ourselves. All kinds of baggage must be laid aside. Sun, heat, rain, cold—all must be endured. It is good that there is no helicopter to drop us at the summit of the Divine—otherwise all the joy would be lost. This is how it is even in nature.

Consider: when Tenzing and Hillary went to Everest for the first time, the bliss they must have experienced—if you were dropped there by helicopter, you would not feel that bliss. Because ninety-nine percent of the joy is in the journey. The goal is only the fulfillment of the journey. Without the journey, what kind of fulfillment is that? If the ninety-nine percent is lost, what kind of fulfillment remains?

If you are set down by helicopter on Everest, you will receive the last one percent. But the ninety-nine percent has been lost. And on the shoulders of that ninety-nine percent this one percent reaches the peak. Without it, this one percent lies flat on the ground; it has no value.

Think of heating water. You heat it to ninety-nine degrees; still no steam. Then at a hundred degrees there is a leap; steam is born. You say, “Ah! It is at the hundredth degree that steam forms; it is only a matter of one degree! From ninety-nine to a hundred—steam.” But that one degree must come after the ninety-nine. If you cling only to that one degree and keep the water lukewarm, steam will never form. The hundredth degree must arrive on the shoulders of the ninety-nine.

The goal is the fulfillment of the journey. So the more arduous, the more laborious the journey is—and the more joyfully, festively, singing you complete it—the higher the peak you will reach.

There is no helicopter to God. There cannot be. Therefore I will not be able to “save” you. You will be saved only when you save yourself. Buddha has said: the awakened ones can point the way; walking you will have to do yourself.

It’s a matter of vision. Where is death right now! Right now you are alive. One thing is certain: you haven’t died yet. If, while life is here, you are not filled with the joy of life, then by bringing up death...

Death hasn’t happened yet; it may happen someday. And who knows whether it happens at all! For those who know say: it never happens. They say death is the greatest lie. It doesn’t happen—only an appearance. The body does not die, because the body is already dead. And the soul cannot die, because the soul is immortal. The conjunction of the two breaks. The breaking of the conjunction is called death—that’s all.

Understand it this way: the needle and the thread have come apart. Just that. Nothing more. The needle is there; the thread is there. You can thread them again. If a little desire remains, the thread will again pass through the needle. You will take birth again.

Life is eternal. The body is not alive. And that which is alive within you can never die. But this is the talk of those who know. You are afraid. Still, understand this one thing: death hasn’t come yet. For now, live life.

You say: “How can a person not be sad, with death around?”
I say: How can you be sad, with life around? If, while life is present, you are sad, then you are only using death as a pretext. Here life is pouring down; all around it is spring; flowers are blooming on the trees; songs are in the throats of the birds. All around the moon and stars are dancing—and you sit there sad! And you say: With death around...

Where is death now? You haven’t died! When you die, then see. When you die, then be sad. For now, dance. And I tell you: if you dance now, your dance will free you from death. If you plunge wholly into celebration, you will know the deathless.

The deathless is known only in celebration; recognized only in moments of deep bliss. Recognize that, and there will be no more death.

You say: “How not be sad, with death around?”
I say: Life is. Join the supreme dance of life. In knowing life you will know: death does not happen.

This moment of departure has come—
but do not sing a sad song now.

One who knows would even at the moment of death say to you, “Wait.” Buddha said, “I am going.” The disciples began to weep. Buddha said, “What is this! For forty years I have continually explained that death does not happen. Still you weep! Did you hear me or not?” His closest disciple, Ananda, beat his chest and wept. Buddha said, “Ananda, have you gone mad? For forty years you stayed like a shadow with me; you heard my every word—and still you weep! What will happen by my going? Who is going? Who goes? No one has ever gone; no one ever goes.”

This moment of departure has come—
but do not sing a sad song now.
Desire whatever you desire—
but, O friend, never bring reproach into the heart.

Listen—far, far away, some wave
brings the tone of a farther—farther—farthest distance;
in it, yes, there is no attachment,
yet nowhere is there separation.
That weighty truth, beyond time—
O, do not forget.

At the moment of death, the one who has lived life richly, fully, will hear:

Listen—far, far away, some wave
brings the tone of a farther—farther—farthest distance.

He will hear: the voice of the Ultimate has come, the music of the Ultimate, the call of the Divine.

In it, yes, there is no attachment,
yet nowhere is there separation.
That weighty truth, beyond time—
O, do not forget.

This moment of departure has come—
but do not sing a sad song now.
There is no dawn or dusk,
no rising and setting
sun, moon, stars;
no wavering, hesitant,
shifting shores.
There, an inner light
calls without cease.
This very radiance is our armor,
our own intimate truth.
The essence we have gained,
forged, burnished, given away—
from the dear shade of that, O friend,
do not now step out.
Do not sing, O friend, any sad song now.

One who has lived life—lived it to the brim, without hesitation, in totality—at the moment of death will see: I am going to that realm—

There is no dawn or dusk,
no rising and setting...
where there is neither morning nor evening; where there is no change.

Sun, moon, stars
are not there,
no wavering, hesitant,
shifting shores;
there, an inner light
calls without cease.

There the inner sun burns.

There, an inner light
calls without cease.
This very radiance is our armor,
our own intimate truth—
this is our personal truth; this is our authentic truth. The deathless is our authentic truth.

The Vedas say: amritasya putrah—O children of the Immortal, do not fall into the lie of death.

This very radiance is our armor,
our own intimate truth.
The essence we have gained,
forged—polished—given away—
from the dear shade of that, O friend,
do not now step out.

The one who has known life, who looks into death with a deep eye, will say: now that this loving shade is falling, I will not go outside it. For him, death is samadhi.

The essence we have gained,
forged—polished—given away—
from the dear shade of that, O friend,
do not now step out.
Do not sing, O friend, any sad song now.
Desire whatever you desire—
but, O friend, never bring reproach into the heart.

Those who have known will say: there is no complaint against death; no reproach. Death takes nothing away. If you are alert, death leaves you with a gift. Death is not the end of this life—it is the beginning of the great Life.

And you say, “How can we not be sad, with death around?”
Where is death? You have assumed it. And your assumption won’t break until you live. Therefore I say: live with zest; live in ecstasy; hum your song; let your life be a dance—a celebration. Under the impact of that celebration all death melts and flows away, and your own intimate truth comes spilling forth.

Then at the gate of death you will find the Divine meeting you as yourself. The gate of death will open, and you will find: you are entering the supreme light. There will be no complaint—there will be gratitude. There will be a prayerful mood—even at the moment of death. Because you will be standing at the doors of the temple.

Live. For the one who lives rightly, there is no death. And the one who does not live rightly dies day after day, dies a thousand times—dies in vain.

Enough for today.