Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #6

First thing: the realization has not happened yet; may it ever happen! And we want to grasp even the future! The very meaning of “future” is what has not yet happened—and we are already planning to lock even that away in a strongbox!
This is miserliness to the extreme; we already hoard the past, and we also worry about the future—how…! If ever realization happens, how shall we preserve it!
So first: even if something has happened in the past, there is no need to hoard it. Whatever you hoard will become a burden.
Memory is not knowing. What has gone by—forget it, let it pass; there is no need to carry it. If your memory gets too overlaid with it, it won’t be able to happen again. Thick dust will settle on your mirror.
What has happened—forget it. What has happened—let it go. What is done—is done. What is finished—is finished. There is no need to store it away.
But our worldly clutches are there; we hoard everything, so perhaps we think: if samadhi ever happens, if the Lord is realized, we will keep that safe too.
Who will keep it safe? When the experience of the Divine happens, you are not there; you won’t remain—who will keep it? What will be kept?
The experience of the Divine is so vast; the realization is greater than you—you will not be able to contain it; it will not fit in your fist. And whatever fits in your fist, do not mistake it for realization.
So first, the very attempt to seize the future is futile. In this way your mind gets tangled in needless anxieties. Don’t build castles in the air.
Second—if the experience does happen, there is no need at all to hoard it. What has been experienced—has been; it doesn’t have to be remembered. It has entered your very breath; it does not need to be safeguarded.
Only that has to be safeguarded which has not happened. Try to understand this.
What you have truly known, you don’t need to remember. What you have not known is what you have to remember. A student memorizes because he hasn’t understood anything, hasn’t known anything. He must take an exam, so he memorizes. After the exam he will forget.
If the experience has truly happened to you, you don’t have to keep it.
What will you keep? The experience happened—the matter is complete.
The truth is, if the experience happens, how will you forget it! What device is there to make the known unknown again? If the experience has truly happened, it has entered your every breath; it has taken up residence in every pore of you. What is known—is known. There is now no way to undo it; nor is there any need to hoard it.
What we need to hoard are borrowed things, things that are not ours; others may have known them, we merely believe. Those we must store. What others have known, we have to remember. Our own knowing does not need to be remembered; what is our own knowing, simply remains. Wake you at midnight in the dark and ask—you will still remember. You won’t forget; you won’t say, “Give me a moment to recall!”
If the experience of the Divine happens to you, will you say, “Give me a moment, let me think it over, then I’ll tell you”? If it has happened, you have become one with the experience.
No; the supreme events of life do not have to be hoarded. The supreme events are so precious, so intense, so deep that they penetrate to the deepest core of your life-breath. Your realization becomes your fragrance.
And do not try to store up anything at all.
This is seen here every day. If someone gets a slight glimpse of meditation, trouble begins. He starts trying to keep it safe. He clutches that glimpse. Because of that very clutching, a new glimpse becomes difficult.
The mind must be empty; the mind must always be vacant; there should be no images on the mirror of the mind. Whatever was experienced—has been.
We keep remembering yesterday only out of fear that—who knows—will it happen again or not!
If a single ray of the Divine descends, there is no fear. You become fearless. What has happened today will happen even more tomorrow; the day after, even more. What has happened will keep on growing. There is no need for such fear.
But we have learned from the world: if you get some money, keep it safe; it might get lost. You got it today—will you surely get it again tomorrow?
You were walking along the road and found a bag of money. Put it away safely. Now, again and again—are you going to find that same bag by the roadside?
So in the world we hoard everything; we cling. We have no experience of the Divine. Where the Divine begins to happen—one drop today, tomorrow it will be two. If not, the fault is yours. If you sit clutching yesterday’s drop and keep humming it, keep chewing the cud of it, the Divine will be standing right before you—and you will remain entangled in your past.
You are busy storing your past realization, and the Divine is knocking at the door—then you will miss.
Experiences—of samadhi, of truth, of right awareness, of awakening—are not to be stored. First thing: they enter every fiber of you; they do not turn into mere memory.
We make memory precisely of that which does not soak into every fiber of us. Understand: when you learned to swim—do you have to remember it? It has entered every fiber of you; there is no “memory” of it. You may not swim for thirty years, fifty years, and then suddenly one day step into a river—will you have to stand and recall how to swim? Will you forget? No one has ever forgotten. You don’t have to remember—and you don’t forget. Understand this secret.
Swimming is an experience—such a deep experience… And it is deep because when you enter the river not knowing how to swim, swimming becomes a matter of life and death; therefore it goes deep.
You enter the river without knowing how to swim—it is life-and-death. This is not like two and two making four. Even if two and two make five, no one dies. Even if two and two make three, no one’s life is gained. Let two and two make four—so be it. If there’s some slip, nothing great is at stake. But step into the river to learn to swim—if you slip, you’ll lose your very life-breath. It is dangerous. Therefore your being does not keep it in memory; it stores it in every fiber of you. This settles into your whole body-breath. Then even after fifty years, if you enter the water, you will find swimming as fresh as it was fifty years ago. There won’t be the slightest lapse. You will find it exactly as it was.
For fifty years you neither stored it nor remembered it, neither repeated it again and again nor practiced it—yet it is there.
The experience of the Divine is like swimming. It too is swimming in the ocean of consciousness. And relating with the Divine is also a matter of life and death. It is a dangerous game. It is not for the weak.
Shukdev Maharaj! You are a miser. You have the habit of hoarding things in life. Do not take that miserliness there; do not carry that miserliness there.
When the Lord descends, he will remain. He will settle of his own accord. You just open the door.
But asked in this way, the door will never open. You are making arrangements in advance.
You ask: If ever a realization happens in life, how can it be preserved exactly as it is?
What is this urge to preserve it as it is! And not move further? You get one ray and want to be satisfied with that?—not walk all the way to the sun? You get one drop and want to settle for it?—not attain the ocean? Why such hurry to stop! The divine is boundless; keep receiving—it never gets exhausted. However much you attain—it never exhausts. The more you get, the more opens up ahead to be gotten.
The divine has no shore or end. Why such haste! Why such miserliness? Why such weakness?—that you want to hold on to it exactly as it was! It seems you think it may not happen again.
The divine is eternal. It happens every moment—once it happens even once, once you acquire the taste. In truth it is happening even now; you don’t know the taste, so you don’t recognize it. It stands before you even now; it is still your neighbor, but there is no recognition. Without the experience there is no recognition. A diamond may lie right in front of you, but if you don’t know what a diamond is, it will just lie there.
I have heard: a jeweler was passing along a road and saw a potter coming with his donkey loaded with stones. And hanging from the donkey’s neck was a priceless diamond! The jeweler was amazed. A diamond worth lakhs! And hanging from a donkey’s neck! He asked the potter, “What will you take for this stone?” He didn’t think it right to say “diamond.” If he said diamond, there’d be trouble; the man would ask more. And the potter must be taking it for a stone, otherwise would he hang it on a donkey’s neck! “What will you take for this stone?”
The potter said, “Give me eight annas.”
The jeweler said, “Eight annas for a stone! Will you take four?”
Such a miserly man! For eight annas he could have had a diamond worth lakhs, but he thought, Why waste eight annas; four will do.
The potter too was a potter. He said, “No, the children will play with it. I won’t give it for a penny less than eight annas. Such a beautiful stone, and you ask for it at four!”
The jeweler thought, Let him go a few steps; I’ll settle it for five or six annas.
The potter went a little ahead; another jeweler came by; he saw—it was a diamond. He said, “What will you take for this stone?” The potter also felt that the stone was valuable. He said, “One rupee cash; not less.”
That jeweler quickly gave one rupee and took the stone. By then the first jeweler returned. He said, “Brother, take six annas.” The potter said, “Brother, it’s sold.” “For how much?” “For one rupee.” The jeweler said, “You fool, it was worth lakhs!”
The potter laughed and said, “I am a fool, because I didn’t know. But you did. You weren’t willing to take it at eight annas! Who is the fool? I am ignorant, so I am excusable. But how will you forgive yourself!”
Even if a diamond lies before you, you need the discernment to know what diamonds are; only then does recognition happen.
The divine is right in front of you; all around; within and without; That alone is; there is nothing else. But our eyes have no experience. The day experience happens—even a single glimpse—then it will be glimpse upon glimpse opening. And then you want to preserve it? What madness!
And if you preserve a glimpse, it will be mere memory. It will be like: the real person is standing before you, and you sit clutching a photograph to your chest!
Memory is a photograph. A photograph is needed only when the real is not present. We had to make images of God because we cannot see the real God. The day you see, you won’t worship an image! You won’t go to temples and mosques. That day, wherever you look, there is only That; there your worship will arise; there your lamps of arati will be arranged. Wherever you sit, there is devotion, there is prayer. Wherever you raise your eyes, there is the glimpse of the Lord.
And you ask, “How can it be preserved exactly as it is?”
If you want to make an album, that’s your choice.
Some people take great interest in making albums. It’s a kind of illness.
A friend of mine is a great photographer; once I went to the Himalayas with him. He had no concern with seeing the Himalayas! He was concerned with taking photos. The Himalayas stood before us; those towering peaks stood there; he was taking photographs. I asked him, “If all you wanted were photographs, you could have gotten them anywhere; they’re sold in the market; why come so far?” He said, “You don’t understand. At home we will sit and peacefully look at the album.”
The Himalayas are right here. The Ganga is flowing. That incomparable gurgling sound! That won’t be in a photograph. Photographs are dead.
In this very context, understand the difference between anubhuti and anubhav. There is a great difference between these two words. Anubhuti is when the happening is right before you—now. And anubhav is what remains as a picture in the mind after it has passed. Anubhuti points to the present; anubhav to the past.
You saw the sun rising; when you were watching it rise; when the sun was rising and you were present with the sun, and some light rose within you too, and you became absorbed—that moment is one of anubhuti. Then in the evening you remembered, “What a lovely sun it was! How beautiful!” and you replayed it in your memory—this is anubhav. Anubhav is dead anubhuti.
In anubhuti there is life, soul; in anubhav only the corpse remains.
Now you ask, “How can that experience be preserved exactly as it is?”
You will decorate a corpse. The life has gone. Life is always in the present; it is here and now.
As I am speaking to you. Right now, as I speak to you, there is life in these words. If you store them away and remember them at home—what did I say?—then the life won’t remain; they will be replayed in your memory.
Memory is a mechanism, like a tape recorder; there will be no life in it. Sometimes people come here; I speak, and they take out a notebook and start writing.
A doctor used to come here; I finally called him and said, “Don’t do this.” He said, “No; but sometimes you say such precious things that they must be preserved.” I said, “You are present, I am present; the speaker is present, the listener is present; why don’t you listen so fully, so vitally, that its entire essence pierces into you? What will you do by writing it on paper? And if you didn’t understand while I am speaking, do you think that when you read this notebook later you will understand? Only a corpse will remain in your hands.”
This is the difference between scripture and the living master. Scriptures are corpses. The corpses of gurus become scriptures. The Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita, the Quran, the Bible—corpses.
When Jesus spoke, those who heard must have felt a thrill in their lives. When the rishis of the Upanishads hummed, and those who were fortunate sat near them, they must have felt gooseflesh; something happened then. That was anubhuti. Now if you read scripture, you are arousing memory, looking at an album; that is anubhav.
Do not make any effort to preserve the divine.
And as of now the divine hasn’t even happened. Let it happen. For now, be concerned—ask a question about how it can happen.
Do you see the foolishness of your question? It hasn’t happened yet. You don’t ask how it can happen! You haven’t found the diamond: you don’t ask where the mine is, how to find it, and when you find it, how you will recognize that this is the real diamond.
You don’t ask that. You ask: if someday I find a diamond… You don’t know where the mine is; you don’t know how to recognize a diamond. If someday you find one, tell me how to tie a knot around it and keep it?
What on earth will you tie a knot around! What is the worth of the knot? You will surely end up tying a knot around some ordinary stone and sitting over it.
Ask the right question; ask a proper question, and pathways will open in your life. When you ask, remember what it is you are asking.

Nature is God asleep; the Master is God awake.
What does “Master” mean? It means: one in whom nature has become divine.
You are asleep; nature is asleep. Even if these two sleepers meet, not much will happen. What can happen between two who are asleep? What can happen between two sleeping states?

As you are, you cannot attune yourself to nature. If you awaken, you will also be able to see nature. If you awaken, you will sense the pulsation of the divine everywhere in nature—on each leaf, in every particle you will glimpse it—but you must awaken first. Even if you sit beside a rose, what will happen? Your mind will wander to your shop. And if you try to think a little about the rose, even that thinking will be borrowed. You have not awakened to yourself yet; how will you awaken to the rose?

One who awakens to oneself can awaken to all. One who is asleep to oneself cannot awaken to anything.
And a rose cannot be your Master. The rose will not shake you. The rose itself is asleep; how will it wake you?

A Master is one who shakes you, who breaks your sleep. You are wrapped in sweet dreams, drowned in imaginations. A Master rings over you like an alarm; he will not let you sleep… Once you taste the flavor of awakening, once you open your eyes and see what is, then it is all right—then you will find God in nature too.

That is why I sometimes speak of nature, but not much. Because to speak to you of nature is, for now, in vain. What will you see in these trees? If at least the trees themselves appear to you, that is already much; but nothing more than trees will you see. In human beings you do not see anything beyond the merely human; how then will you see in trees anything more than trees? You see nothing even within yourself.

The beginning must be with yourself.
And there is great meaning in being with a living Master.

A Master’s work is a most thankless task. No one even thanks him! It provokes anger. For if the Master wakes you, you get angry.
You even go searching for those “masters” who will collaborate with your sleep. So you seek pundits and priests. They themselves are asleep—snoring in their sleep; they become a sedative for you.

From an awakened Master you will run away; you have always run away; otherwise by now you would already be awake. You ran from Buddha; you ran from Mahavira; you must have run from Kabir, from Malukdas. Wherever you saw someone awake, you felt it was not wise to go there; you kept running. That is how you have “survived” so far—otherwise you would have awakened long ago. You clutch at the support of those who will not disturb your sleep. You say: Let religion also happen, and let us remain exactly as we are. You think, “Let me do a little something so that, if God exists, I will still have some face to show: I did prayer and worship. If I didn’t do it myself, I hired a priest on salary—he did it. We even had Satyanarayan’s tale performed. We distributed prasad! If there is no God, no harm done—spent a few rupees on sweets, a few rupees went to the priest; no problem. And that little expense we even put to use in the marketplace: the man who regularly gets Satyanarayan’s story recited—his shop does well. People think: he does the katha, so at least he must have some trust in Satyanarayan. He must speak the truth. He will cheat less. He will deceive less.”

There is profit here too—from Satyanarayan’s tale. People start to think: “Religious!”—and then you can pick their pockets more easily. They gain trust: “He is honest, he goes to the temple, he prays.” It becomes convenient; you gain prestige.
There is profit here; and if there turns out to be a God, you will profit there too.

I have heard: A man died; he reached the gates of heaven. The gatekeeper asked, “Sir, have you done some virtue that you have come straight to heaven?” He said, “Yes, I have. I once gave an old woman three paise.”
Seeing such a miser, such a niggard, they could not believe it. There had been reports from earth that he was a great miser. That he had given three paise—hard to believe. But they checked the accounts book. He had indeed given three paise. It was recorded.
So the gatekeeper asked his colleague, “Now what should we do?” The colleague said, “Give him not three but four paise back—interest included—and send him to hell. What else can we do!”
What you have done in the name of religion is just like those three paise. And remember: the fourth paise will be returned to you—and then the journey to hell!

You do religion with bookkeeping. But if you live near a true Master, your sleep will be broken. Your dream will break.
Sometimes a dream is nice too; beautiful too. Not all dreams are nightmares!

I have heard: One night Mulla Nasruddin’s wife woke him up, “Thief! Thief! Get up.” He got very annoyed. “Let the thief go to hell. You spoiled everything! Now who knows whether it will happen again or not?” He quickly lay down and shut his eyes. His wife asked, “What is the matter?” He said, “You will ruin it completely. In my dream a man was giving me a hundred rupees. You woke me at the wrong moment. Now who knows—if I close my eyes—whether he will give it or not, whether I will get it or not.”

You too have your dreams; you are tying your fantasies to them.
So the Master will not only break your painful dreams; he will also break your pleasant dreams.

Nature cannot do this. Nature is itself asleep—how will it wake you? Yes, if you go to nature, you will get a little relief, a little peace, because nature is unagitated.
Sitting by the lakes of Kashmir, or in the valleys of the Himalayas among the green trees, under the moon and stars; watching the far, towering waves of the ocean—you will become a little peaceful, because there is no human nuisance there; none of the waves of diseased human minds. That is all that will happen. But this is no great attainment.

In the beginning, if you go to the Himalayas, you will feel quiet for two or four days, and then the unrest will start again. You will forget the Himalayas; your mind will come back; it will tangle again in its old calculations; you will start thinking of the market, the world, worldly matters. Then you will descend from the mountains; you will say, “Let’s go back home; I am getting bored here now.”

From nature you can get a little peace for a short while. For rest, it is fine. From nature you can get a little sleep, because it is asleep in deep sleep. That is why by the sea, in the mountains, in solitude, in silence, it feels good—good like sleep. But how will awakening happen? Awakening can happen only by being near one who is awake.

The sun has come to your door,
This shawl of dreams—
Put it away now,
The sun has come to your door.
Wipe your damp cheeks,
Lift your eyes and speak a little,
Comb your scattered hair,
The sun has come to your door.
The birds, again and again, are singing,
Memories are calling you near,
Pluck the strings of the mind,
The sun has come to your door.

By the Master’s side the sun comes to your door.

This shawl of dreams—
Put it away now.

Are you sitting wrapped in the shawl of dreams? Wearing a dream-veil, and because of it you cannot see what is. The Master will take off your shawl. He will make your eyes naked. He will clear away the smoke of dreams. But even this can happen only if you cooperate. It cannot happen against you. That is why without your surrender it cannot happen. There can be no forcing here.

Liberation cannot be obtained by force. And what would liberation be, if obtained by force? Anything gained by force is only another bondage. Freedom cannot be forced. Freedom comes when you desire it and cooperate. But often it happens like this:
First, you do not reach a Master—you are afraid. You look for cheap masters, worse than yourself—of whom you have no fear, whom you can purchase, about whom you have no worry, who will not be able to break your sleep. You know them well—they are your servants.

And if by some mistake you do reach a true Master, you will not cooperate. You will resist. You will raise every kind of opposition. You will try a thousand devices so that his voice does not reach you. Or, even if it reaches you, you will interpret it in such a way that the force in it—the force meant to wake you—loses its edge.

Without your cooperation, even a true Master can do nothing.
Nature cannot do this waking for you; yes, a few lessons can be learned from nature—like the lesson of being natural, the lesson of being simple. But even that you will learn only if you are ready!

From animals and birds one can learn something. Looking into a cow’s eyes, one can learn something. Watching waterfalls, one can learn something. Sitting amongst the trees, one can learn something. But you will learn only if you are ready!

And if you are ready to learn, then in this world there is no event more glorious than a true Master. Because the flowers of consciousness have bloomed. Where could greater flowers bloom than this? That is why we have said: the one in whom the thousand-petaled lotus has blossomed—that one is the true Master. The lotus of consciousness has opened—its thousand petals have unfolded.
Surely, in nature there are very beautiful lotuses, the most beautiful lotuses; but compared to the lotus that blooms in human consciousness, they are nothing.

You can learn something from nature; therefore, sometimes I speak of it.

These stony lips,
Drowsy eyes,
A blurred, soiled vision—
With a body this tired,
How will I begin the day?
With the lamp I kept awake,
But could not sleep along with it.
Its work was completed,
But my work could not be done.
All through the night,
Splinters of broken dreams
Keep pricking in my eyes,
And upon my chest presses
A heavy, heavy emptiness.
On every side, desolation;
It is myself that appears to me,
As in a cracked mirror
Countless reflections of me.
One by one all my
Hopes have given up the ghost,
All expectations
Have timidly let go my hand.
Now there is only me,
Or that departing, restless smoke of the lamp—
My resolves all unfinished,
My whole creation a failure.
Dispassionate, I have slipped
From the lure of my own creations;
My earnings and my debts
Seem all alike to me.
Ah, if only I too, in utter simplicity,
Might live, and just so die,
As buds open into blossom,
As blades of grass wither away.

If you learn at least this much from nature:
Ah, if only I too, in utter simplicity,
Might live, and just so die,
As buds open into blossom,
As blades of grass wither away.

No worries, no fear; no attachments, no infatuations, no greed. If you learn just this much from nature, it is a lot. But how will you learn it?

You need someone who will shake you; you need someone who will break your sleep; someone to call to you, loudly. Flowers speak softly. Trees too speak, but their voice is very silent. And you are so full of clamor that, unless someone climbs onto the rooftops and shouts, you will hardly hear.

Jesus told his disciples: Go, climb onto the housetops and shout, so that perhaps a few who wish to hear, may hear. People are deaf, Jesus said; people are blind. Go and shout, so that in their noise a little of the message may reach them—perhaps it may. If you knock on a thousand doors, perhaps one heart will be found open.

A true Master works on a thousand, and then perhaps one person agrees to awaken. The other nine hundred and ninety-nine are enemies to their own being. They do everything they can to ensure that no one can wake them.

Both victory and defeat. Because to attain the Divine, first one must learn how to lose—and it is only through the door of losing that victory comes. Losing is the means; victory is the outcome. Losing is the method. The one who is willing to lose is the one who wins.

In the realm of love, losing is the only means. In the realm of love, the one who wants to win ends up losing; and the one ready to lose is the one who wins.

The world of love is profoundly paradoxical. And the Divine means: the ultimate height of love, the supreme state of love.

Your question is important; it must have arisen out of the fear that if one wants to win in life, why begin by losing? It doesn’t sound right; it doesn’t fit arithmetic; it goes against logic. Logic says: if you want to win, begin with winning. If you want to go east and you set out to the west, how will you ever reach the east? If you want to win, start by winning. If you start by losing, you’ll repent and end up defeated. That’s what logic says—but life is bigger than logic.

Life’s logic is unique. It says: if you want to win, then lose. If you want to win quickly, then lose quickly. If you want to win totally, then lose totally. The one who places his head at the feet of the Divine finds the Divine enthroned in his heart. Not only that—he too becomes enthroned in the heart of the Divine.

The wheel of time,
and patience as the axle;
in life’s chariot
the breaths themselves are the charioteer.
Hope the steed,
and the roads unknown;
crossroads of longings—
learn your limits.
Now there is no more difference,
no regret in the heart.
Whom then to worship?
Whose aarti to perform?
To dispel the dark
love is the flame.
They call gold
a body of clay.
There love is mad,
there every song is wounded.
In such a state,
breath itself weighed upon the breaths.
In the ocean of compassion,
a village of shells—
of no use there
the boat or boatman.
When I sank to the very floor
I found the heart’s pearl.
Shall I call this victory,
or was it my defeat?
When I sank to the very floor
I found the heart’s pearl.
Shall I call this victory,
or was it my defeat?

Whoever dives deep in the ocean brings back pearls. Losing is the way to dive.

Jesus has said: Whoever tries to save himself will lose himself; and whoever is willing to lose himself will save himself.

Love is the mathematics of losing. So long as you carry the ego that says, “I will win, I must win,” you will not be able to enter the world of love. You see, the devotees say: “To the defeated belongs the Name of God.” Only the one who has lost is filled with the Divine Name. But the meditators have not said this.

The meditator says: the one who attains Truth becomes a Jina—one who has conquered. From the word Jina comes Jain—meaning “the one who has won.” The devotee says: the defeated one—the sarvahara, the one who has surrendered everything—he attains the Divine. The knower says: the one who pours himself totally into winning, mustering all resolve, attains.

Knowledge is a process of winning; therefore on the path of knowledge, ego is a great danger. If on the path of knowledge you do not guard against ego, then forget the Divine—only ego will go on growing.

On the path of devotion there is no danger from ego, because ego is to be laid down at the very first step. At the very first step, the ego must be set aside. The danger on the path of devotion is sloth, laziness. A devotee can become lazy: “Fine—I've surrendered, placed my head at the Divine’s feet; now whatever happens will happen. Not a leaf moves without His will; so He will do whatever is to be done. What is there for me to do? I need do nothing.” And behind this “doing nothing,” all the old web continues just as it was—stealing, dishonesty, harshness, violence.

On the path of devotion the danger is laziness; there is no danger from ego. On the path of knowledge the danger is ego, because it is the path of resolve; there is no danger there from laziness.

Every path has its supports, and every path has its dangers. And it often happens that we ignore the supports and fall into the dangers. Of a hundred knowers, ninety-nine get entangled in ego; and of a hundred devotees, ninety-nine fall into laziness and become dull, inert.

Be alert. If you choose the path of knowledge, the path of meditation, remember well that ego must not be allowed to fill you—otherwise all is wasted, all your doing undone. Built with one hand, destroyed with the other. It becomes spiritual suicide.

On the path of devotion, ego is no danger. The devotee does not think of himself at all. He keeps no sense of “I.” The danger is different: that he may become slothful, inert, fatalistic—saying, “Whatever will be, will be. Nothing happens through our doing; we are as we are; we shall remain as we are. When His grace descends, it will descend. Effort does not bring it; when the gift comes, it comes. Until it comes, what can we do? We will live as we are.”

No—this is not the meaning of grace. Grace means: we will make ourselves ready so that His grace can shower upon us. At least we will cleanse our vessel, for if the vessel is dirty, no medicine can be kept in it. If the vessel is dirty and someone even pours milk into it, the milk will be spoiled.

The Divine’s grace cannot settle in a soiled vessel; even if it descends, it will turn poisonous. The vessel must be purified, refined. If you have invited the Guest, the inner house must be set in order. The home must be cleaned and made pure.

It is not that devotion involves no effort. There is effort; only, it does not rely on effort alone. The effort is complete; the devotee will do his utmost, knowing that the final offering will be by You. We can begin. We will call, but You will hear the call. The start of the journey is in our hands; the end is in Yours. We will provide all the means, but the end—the goal—You will grant. We cannot arrive at the destination by ourselves; we will traverse the path, but You will give the destination. Keep this in mind.

The devotee will make full effort; yet he accepts that effort alone will not complete it. Something will remain—what is essential will remain.

A guest is coming to your home; you have cleaned the house, placed flowers, lit lamps, offered incense, spread fragrance—everything made ready. Even so, the guest does not come merely because you prepared. He will come when he comes. But your preparation ensures that when he does come, he will not find your door closed. He will not have to turn back; you are ready. If his rain descends, your vessel is ready; you are purified.

The knower thinks that by his effort alone everything happens; there is no need for grace—so the danger is ego. And if the devotee thinks that everything happens only through His grace and there is no need for my effort—then the danger is laziness, inertia.

The devotee loses—and rejoices in losing. In this losing there is no sorrow, no anguish, no anxiety. What anguish can there be in losing to love?

Have you ever lost in love? In losing in love there is no worry, no pain. In love’s losing there is great joy; in love’s losing there is great victory.

When I sank to the very floor
I found the heart’s pearl.
Shall I call this victory,
or was it my defeat?

To attain the Divine you must lose—and in losing, your victory happens. Victory comes through the medium of defeat.

The devotee’s joy is not heavenly bliss, because the devotee has never longed for Vaikuntha. Devotees have said again and again: keep your Vaikuntha to yourself; we have no need of your heaven. We want you.

The devotee longs for God. And if you want anything other than God, you are not a devotee; you are even ready to exploit God. If in your prayer any other demand is hidden—that I may get wealth, position, prestige, long life, health, that I may obtain heaven—then you do not want God.

I have heard: an emperor went to conquer the world. When he was returning, he had a hundred wives. He sent word that he was coming home and asked each wife what she wanted him to bring. One asked for diamonds, another for jewels, another for strings of pearls—this and that. Only one queen wrote: just come yourself; that is enough.

The emperor returned; he brought everything for everyone, but he clasped that hundredth woman to his chest. And he said, “Now I know who wants me.”

Diamonds, pearls, gems—when a husband comes back after years, who cares for diamonds and pearls? Come back—that is enough.

The devotee says: God, just let me find you. The devotee asks neither for heavenly bliss nor for “God-attainment.” Understand this too.

When the devotee says, “God, let me find you,” it is not a demand to attain the Lord. “God-attainment” sounds as if you should come into my fist. The devotee says: let me come into your fist—do something so that I cannot run away; do something so that I never be parted from your feet; let me fall at your feet.

“God-attainment” is not the right phrase, for in this “attainment” it sounds like acquiring wealth, acquiring heaven—so acquiring God. No; the devotee says: that I should “get” you is a foolish idea. Let me not forget you; let remembrance remain; let me keep calling you; let my hands keep reaching for your feet—that is enough.

The devotee says: let this longing that has awakened within me for you not be extinguished. Let me taste bliss in the pain of this separation. Let these moments of waiting become the moments of my prayer. And one day may it happen that my drop dissolves into your ocean.

From the far shore
of the ocean of time, leaving me
on this shore,
keep calling me
in my own voice,
so that I
like a Vedic chant
beloved of Om,
become mad.
Even knowing me mad,
do not join that shore to this;
do not build a bridge,
send no boat,
do not give me wings—
lest in an unripe flight I lose my way,
forget the destination.
Then let my words,
in my own voice,
keep calling me,
keep calling me,
keep calling me,
so that I become mad,
like a Vedic chant beloved of Om.

The devotee says: keep calling me in my own voice—call me in such a voice that I can understand. I am simple, ignorant. I have no cleverness. Do not call me in a tongue I cannot comprehend.

From the far shore
of the ocean of time, leaving me
on this shore,
keep calling me
in my own voice.

You are far away—who knows where! Somewhere on the far bank of the ocean of time—who knows where! But it is enough for me that now and then you call me, so I do not wander astray, so I do not get lost, so I do not become entangled in the world. Here there are a thousand devices for entanglement; a thousand paths for wandering. As for reaching—who knows whether there is even a path?

From the far shore
of the ocean of time, leaving me
on this shore,
keep calling me
in my own voice,
so that I
like a Vedic chant
beloved of Om,
become mad.

The devotee says: make me mad; make me insane with your love. I do not want cleverness and calculation. Cleverness is all strategy; who has ever found you through cleverness? The crazed ones have reached your door; the mad ones have reached your door. Only the mad can reach. One who is not ready to be mad cannot be a devotee. Devotion is the path of the mad.

So that I,
like a Vedic chant
beloved of Om,
become mad.
Even knowing me mad,
do not join that shore to this.

And do not hurry, because there is great relish even in the madness of seeking you. There is no hurry.

Even knowing me mad,
do not join that shore to this,
do not build a bridge.
Let me keep calling; let me writhe in longing; grant me the chance that every hair on my body go mad with your love.

Send no boat.
Do not be in a hurry and do not send a ship to fetch me; there is no hurry. The devotee’s waiting is endless.

Do not give me wings,
lest in an unripe flight I lose my way,
forget the destination.
I do not know where you are! How vast an ocean of time I must cross! Do not give me wings too soon—lest in a premature flight I lose the way, forget the goal. Lest arrogance of flight arise! Lest I rely too much on wings and forget you!

Let me writhe; let me, far on this shore, weep in exile and go out of my mind.

Then let my words
in my own voice
keep calling me—
only do this one thing: keep calling me. Do not let it happen that your call to me should cease.

Keep calling me,
keep calling me,
keep calling me,
so that I become mad,
like a Vedic chant beloved of Om.

When a devotee goes mad with his whole being—not partially, but totally—at that very instant union with the divine happens; in that instant the ocean of time disappears.

It is because of our cleverness that time is. Because of our logic and our doubts, there is time and there is the world. There is a moment of such divine frenzy in which time dissolves. Dancing, Mira becomes filled with Krishna. So it happened to Chaitanya. So it happened to Baba Malukdas. The intoxicated ones, the masts…

But what does the devotee want ultimately? The devotee does not even want to become God. He says: keep a little distance, so that the call of love may continue, the dialogue of love may continue. Keep me near, but keep a little distance too, so that I can behold you, gaze upon you, bathe your feet—keep at least that much distance. Do not drown me completely within yourself.

The sage’s aspiration is to become one with God. The devotee’s aspiration is to be absorbed in the service of God. The devotee longs to behold the Lord’s supreme beauty; to dance around the Lord, to join the rasa.

You ask: “I do want to attain God, but I cannot muster the courage to do anything in that direction.”
Then there is no life in that desire. It is a lifeless wish. You want God for free—perhaps to find him lying by the roadside!
You don’t want to do anything for God; you don’t want to stake yourself. God is last on your list. For wealth you strive; for position you run day and night; but for God you say you cannot gather the courage to do anything. Look at this closely.
This inability to gather courage has one basic reason: in truth you do not want God. Because when we truly want something, we become ready to do anything for it. For money a person is ready to steal, to kill, to go to prison—even to face the gallows! For position, what is a person not willing to do! But to attain God—one thinks: if only he came on his own. If only I could get him without doing anything. If only he were free.
Remember, religion is not free. Religion is the most precious thing in existence—you have to pay with your very life; and paying with anything less will not do.
So you do not want to attain. You say you do, but your next sentence shows you do not. What is the proof of wanting? The proof is how much you do for it—that alone shows whether you want it.

I have heard a story; meditate on it.
Majnu came and sat beneath a tree by Laila’s door. No awareness of hunger, no sense of thirst—just “Laila, Laila” on his lips. When Laila heard, she told her maid: “Otherwise this poor fellow will truly die. Take him a glass of milk and some fruit and nuts three times a day.”
Now the scene is: the maid brings this nourishing food three times a day and sets it down, and Majnu doesn’t touch it. A little distance away, under another tree, a poor fellow used to sit. Seeing milk, cream, fruits, nuts going to waste every day upset him. So the moment the maid left, he would come and eat and drink. After a few days he said to Majnu, “Sir, if you’re not going to eat any of this and will only chant ‘Laila, Laila,’ then sit under that other tree. Why make me walk over here three times a day?”
Majnu agreed. Now the poor man sat in Majnu’s place and devoured the delicacies meant for Majnu—enjoying them thoroughly. Not only that, he often called out, “Bring more too!” Days passed.
One day Laila asked the maid, “How is my Majnu? You’ve told me nothing. The poor fellow must have shriveled to a skeleton by now!” The maid snapped, “O good lady, that wretch is getting fat on what you send!”
Hearing this, Laila was stunned: how could my Majnu change so much! She told the maid, “Now take him an empty glass and say: ‘Fill this with your blood for Laila. Laila’s life is in danger. This blood will save her; only this blood can save her. No one else’s blood will do.’”
The maid did as told. The poor man frowned at the empty glass, and after hearing Laila’s request, burst out laughing. He said, “Listen carefully, girl, and understand. If a Majnu who drinks milk is needed, this humble man is sitting here. If a Majnu who gives blood is needed—he is under that other tree.”
To attain God, you have to give yourself totally; you have to become a Majnu. One who is not ready to lose himself should understand this much: the thirst for God has not yet arisen within him.

So you are asking the wrong question. You have already assumed that you want to attain God. That is where the mistake lies. Until you see this mistake, you will neither be able to gauge your condition accurately nor step out of it.
Many people believe they want to attain God, but what to do—there are a thousand entanglements, jobs, therefore no time! Or: there isn’t enough courage to stake everything. In this way they deceive themselves—and enjoy the sweet feeling, “I do want to attain God.”
It is hurtful to admit, “I do not want God.” So a balm is applied. Then comes another excuse: “What to do—so many complications; the present situation doesn’t allow it.”
I would say, first of all, that the longing to attain God has not yet arisen in you. And why fret over something for which the longing has not arisen? Because until thirst arises, nothing can happen.
Water can be given to you, but how can thirst be given? Without thirst, what will you do with water? One can lead a horse to the river and show it the water, but how will you make it drink? Only if the horse is thirsty will it drink.
And one who is thirsty does not need to be led to the river; the thirsty one finds the river. The thirsty one drops everything else and seeks only water.
There is no thirst within you. And to awaken this thirst, the first indispensable step is to understand clearly: within me there is no thirst for God. This will sting; it will create a wound: “There is no thirst for God in me! Then am I to get entangled and finish up in wealth, position, prestige? If this transient life is all I see, how dull-witted I am!” This will hurt deeply. The pain will wake you. When you awaken, perhaps the thirst will arise.
The greatest danger in the world is not knowing your exact condition, while imagining something else. If a sick man believes he is healthy, how will treatment begin? The sick must realize, “I am sick”—then treatment is possible. Then he will seek a physician, seek medicine, do something.
If an irreligious person settles down believing himself religious, the journey does not even begin. First the irreligious must know, “I am irreligious.” He must know with such depth that there is no religion in my life; there will be sorrow, there will be hurt, great pain—that in my life there is no longing for God, no feeling, no thirst! I am not a seeker of truth! I am taking this body and its few days of play as everything!
From this very hurt, the hidden thirst within you may arise. Thirst is hidden in everyone; it should awaken.
There is no one in whom the thirst for God does not exist—that cannot be. For what do you think “God” means? God means the supreme state of bliss. Who is there without thirst for bliss? Who does not want to be delighted? God means the state of immortality. Who is there who does not want to go beyond death? Who does not want to become vast? Who does not want to break all boundaries and fly in ultimate freedom? But we are not clear.
“I do want to attain God, but I cannot muster the courage to do anything in that direction. Hearing that renunciation is not necessary makes me feel good.” Many feel good!
But they hear only half. I say: there is no need for renunciation. The other thing I say—you have not heard. I say: love is needed. And with love, renunciation follows as a shadow follows you. But then the tone of renunciation is utterly different. Then you don’t have to renounce; renunciation is natural.
The moment you love, renunciation begins. When a mother loves her child, how much she renounces! When you fall in love with a woman, how much you give up! Yet you don’t call it renunciation. You say, “What talk of renunciation; it is my joy.”
When a mother does something for her son, she doesn’t say, “I am renouncing.” She says, “It is my joy.” The truth is, a mother always aches that she couldn’t do as much as she ought to have done. What was worthy to be done did not happen through her. She never says, “I renounced so much.” She says only, “What I had to do, I could not do. For my son I could not fulfill what was necessary. I could not live my love in its wholeness”—this is the pang in a mother’s heart.
She cannot call it renunciation. We call it renunciation only when there is no love. If you give two coins to a beggar, you call it renunciation—because there is no love. If you give two coins to a friend, you do not call it renunciation; to call it so would sound absurd.
You have heard that I say: there is no need for renunciation. Certainly I say there is no need, because renunciation, as an ideal, is ugly. Love is needed. And the renunciation that comes in love is supremely beautiful; it has another quality, another glory, another dignity.
If you stop with only that first half, you are deceiving yourself. With meditation, renunciation comes; with love, renunciation comes—because if you don’t drop the rubbish, what will you do? What will you do holding on to garbage?
As of now, your condition is that you cling to garbage and let go of the diamond. You call this enjoyment! You are most unwise. Hold the diamond; drop the trash. And when one drops trash, one does not call it renunciation. Each morning you sweep your house and throw the garbage out—you don’t rush to the newspapers to announce, “Today again I renounced garbage!” If you tried to print that news, it would be obvious you took garbage to be treasure.
When you leave wealth, you say, “I performed great renunciation”—which means you believed there was wealth in that wealth. Where is wealth in wealth? It is only belief.
Don’t you see the wealthy in a state of inner poverty? Don’t you find those in high office inwardly pitiable? Those who have everything—do you see any inner radiance in them, any zest, any celebration? Is there a sense of the richness of life there? Nothing. Dry, withered people! They have piled up pebbles and stones; and under those very stones they will be buried and die—those stones will become their graves.
So I do not advocate renunciation.
I say two things, because only two are possible. Either love—walk the path of devotion; then renunciation comes behind love. Or meditate—walk the path of knowing; then renunciation comes behind meditation. On the path of love, renunciation comes because as your love grows, the urge to share what you have grows; you want to make everything common. Love wants to be distributed.
Thus, on the path of love, renunciation appears—as sharing. One wants to give oneself away completely; to hold back nothing. All miserliness dissolves. Body, mind, wealth—everything is offered. All is his; you return it to him. “Tvadīyam vastu Govinda, tubhyam eva samarpayet.” You say: O Govind, it was yours; I give it back to you. What renunciation is this? It was yours—I returned it to you; what of mine was there! You don’t call it renunciation. It was his; it goes back to him—needlessly we had claimed ownership; we drop that claim.
On the path of meditation, inner vision opens; it becomes clear you are clutching trash. One leaps out. One does not look back. Thus Buddha one day walked out; Mahavira one day walked out of the palace, leaving everything. The Jains say: he performed great renunciation. They are wrong. They know nothing of Mahavira; they know nothing of his inner state.
To call it renunciation would mean there had been “wealth.” Mahavira did not renounce. Mahavira saw: there is nothing here to renounce. Lifelong delusion fell away; the dream snapped; sleep broke. He was outside the “palace.” The “palace” had never been. Kingdom and power were a deception—a big dream.

I have heard: An emperor sat by the bed of his only son. The boy was near death. The physicians had said the night would not be completed; he would die before morning. The father sat awake. For three or four nights he had not slept—so ill was the boy, and all hope rested on him; the only son; the heir to the kingdom; the apple of his eye.
So the father wept, helpless. Before death we become so pitiable, so poor. The whole empire is useless. All wealth is futile. Today he would gladly give everything for his son’s life—but nothing works.
Weeping, he dozed off. In the doze he dreamed: he had great palaces of gold; his city was paved with gold. His capital was studded with jewels. And he had twelve sons—each more beautiful, more brilliant than the other. And his rule covered the whole earth; he was a universal emperor. He delighted in the dream.
Just then his wife burst into loud sobs—the boy’s breath had stopped. At the sound, he opened his eyes. He stared at his dead son. The wife became a little alarmed: he had been so attached to the boy—and now not a tear! Until now he had been crying. Now the boy was dead, and he sat stunned. She thought he must have gone mad. She shook him: “You say nothing; you don’t cry? Say something—the boy is dead!” He began to laugh. Then she was certain he had gone mad. “You are laughing! What is this?”
He said, “I am laughing because now whom should I weep for—and whom not? Just now I had twelve sons; I had completely forgotten this one. I had a great capital; palaces of gold. Their sheen has not yet left my eyes; their glitter is still there. I saw a vast dream: I was a universal emperor; what is this little kingdom! My flag waved over the whole earth. My capital was encrusted with jewels. The roads were of gold; the palaces of gold. And my twelve sons—what is your talk of one! Each was more beautiful, more brilliant than the other. Suddenly you sobbed; my eyes opened; the whole dream vanished. Now I wonder: shall I weep for those twelve or for this one? Shall I mourn that vast empire which just now was mine and now is not—or for this small kingdom? For this too is just-now mine and just-now will not be. Today the son died; tomorrow I will die. With the son’s death, the news of my death has arrived.”
They say: that night the father disappeared from the house; no one knew where he went. They searched much, but he was not found. The dream broke. Not only the inner dream broke; the outer dream broke as well. What we call reality also shattered; it too is a great dream.
Did he renounce? He did not renounce; understanding dawned.

So either understanding comes through meditation—then what is futile appears futile; your grip loosens. Renunciation does happen, but you don’t call it that.
Or through love… you are so drenched in love that all are yours; then whatever you have, you begin to share. The more it is shared, the better; the lighter you become; mine-and-thine disappears; all belongs to that One.

But renunciation happens in both cases.
I have certainly said to you again and again that renunciation is not required, because renunciation happens on its own; it is not needed as a demand. Either love—love is needed. Or meditate—meditation is needed. Renunciation follows—silently follows. Renunciation is a consequence.
And what do we have, after all, to give up?

A body of clay, a mind in intoxication,
a life of a moment—this is my introduction.

Last night, into the darkness of Time
my very being was dissolved.
In this great, embodied world
yesterday I was absent, formless.
Yesterday, in a heavy, heady sleep,
numbness was vying with numbness—
by what sweet hands’ touch today
does a new awakened life arise?
From clay to become a cup of honey—
by which potter’s resolve?
A body of clay, a mind in intoxication,
a life of a moment—this is my introduction.

At birth the ground was delusion,
even the sky was being confused.
How then could any secret
of that Artist be revealed?
When the eyes opened, I knew:
all around me is steady and still.
I had thought all was deluded—but
unaware, I myself was the delusion.
Born of delusion—how will that
ever accumulate knowledge?
A body of clay, a mind in intoxication,
a life of a moment—this is my introduction.

What do we have to give? To donate, to renounce—what do we have? A body of clay, a mind in intoxication, a moment-long life—this is my introduction. A bubble of water lasting a moment. A clay body and a little drunkenness of the mind—intoxication of dreams—and a clay body carrying those dreams, and all of it fleeting, for a moment. With so small an introduction, what is there to give or take?
One who awakens—either in love or in meditation—finds that renunciation blossoms of itself.

If the thought remains, “I did good,” then you have not done good. One who truly does good has no thought of doing good. And the one who has the notion that he is doing good meets exactly the result you met: people will harm him. Because when you do good to someone while very consciously knowing you are doing good, you hurt the other’s ego. He will never be able to forgive you.

When you have given someone a couple of coins, have you noticed how stiffly—how arrogantly—you give them? You see the two coins; that man sees your swagger. And inside he writhes: what an unfortunate moment, that I had to take two coins from a man like this. He resolves, “Let me see—if I ever get the chance, I will pay this back.”

You do not see your own haughtiness; he sees it. You are giving two coins, but how puffed-up you are! How high you have raised your hand—you have become a great benefactor.

Even when you do good, your goodness is only an adornment of your ego. And behind it you want a response—thanks, acknowledgment, a sense of obligation. And what the other sees is your ego.
I have a friend; he is wealthy, and a good man. Just like you—the one who has asked the question. He once traveled with me, and on the way he opened his heart. He told me there is something he had always wanted to ask, but never got the chance. “In my life I have given abundantly to all my relatives, my friends, everyone. But no one is happy with me!”
And this is true. I know his friends, his family, his relatives, even the distant ones—I know them all. He has given to everyone. He himself came from a poor home. He was adopted into a rich household, so all his relatives are poor. After all, the father who gives his son away in adoption is not a rich man. He came into a wealthy home as an adopted child. So his acquaintances, friends, relatives—his entire circle—was steeped in poverty. He made them all rich. He gave as much as he could. There is no untruth in this; I knew it. And I also knew that what he was saying was true: not a single relative is happy with him. Everyone is annoyed with him, everyone is his enemy. If they ever got the chance, any one of them would be ready to wipe him out.

So he asked me, “What is the matter? I never harmed anyone. I did good to all. Yet everyone is angry with me! No one comes through when needed! They all seem to be against me.”

I told him: You did good, but you didn’t know how to do good. You gave money, yes—but with great haughtiness. You made the other abject. You deepened the other’s sense of inferiority; you touched his raw wound. What you gave, you gave to prove: “Look who I am, and who you are!” Their resentment is natural. They are eager to take revenge. And you never gave them any opportunity that, even for a moment, they could be above you. You never did even so much as, when you were ill, calling a friend and saying, “Come, sit by my bed. Your sitting here will make me feel better.” You didn’t give anyone even that chance. You showed sympathy to all, but never gave the other the chance to show sympathy to you. That created danger. That is why they are all angry.

This is what I want to tell you.

You say, “I have done this all my life.”

You may have shown compassion, but you did not know how to be compassionate. You may have been compassionate, but there must have been deep ego within that compassion. You may have served, but there was no love in the doing—only a sense of duty. And the sense of duty is not a virtue; it is a vice. And you may have shown sympathy—you say you did, and perhaps you did—but no one is delighted by sympathy.

Listen closely to this song:

What shall I do with your sympathy? What shall I do?
Whenever I was in sorrow
you showed sympathy.
I was always grateful;
both of us kept the ritual.
But now this gratitude
has grown into a heavy burden—
What shall I do with your sympathy? What shall I do?

When did even one of my sighs
become yours for a day?
When did the stream of tears from this eye
ever flow from that eye?
How long will the little box of words
keep the truth shut?
What shall I do with your sympathy? What shall I do?

Who is there that can
hand his sorrow to another?
Who is there that can
take another’s sorrow upon himself?
Why should this trade in deception
continue between us?
What shall I do with your sympathy? What shall I do?

Why not accept that we are
walking on such a path
where every traveler is alone,
where griefs are not shared?
He who displays pain
at another’s pain
hides only his private joy
of being free from that pain.
You are miserable, so I am happy—
what a heavy curse upon the world!
What shall I do with your sympathy? What shall I do?

When you show sympathy toward someone, watch inside a little—you are enjoying it.

Understand it like this: a man’s house has caught fire. You go and show sympathy—“So bad, so bad!” But look within: you are also enjoying the fact that your house didn’t burn, his did. Watch closely. There is a glint in your eyes—the pleasure of displaying sympathy.

And I tell you, you are certainly taking that pleasure. Think from the other side. This man’s hut burned down; if it had not burned down, and he had suddenly won a lottery and built a mansion, would you or would you not feel unhappy? If he built a house bigger than yours, would jealousy arise in you or not?

If you cannot be happy in his happiness, then your sorrow in his sorrow is false. In his joy you become unhappy—so in his sorrow you are surely becoming happy. The two go together.

Whenever you declare you are pained by someone’s pain, whether you show it outwardly or not, the other receives the vibrations that you are quite pleased within, secretly relishing it.

Sympathy has a great relish to it; it is a free, costless thrill of being above someone. The other stands there a beggar; you drop a few words into his begging bowl, and you feel very pleased.

Remember, your stance of sensitivity and sympathy toward the other will be genuine only when every trace of jealousy has vanished from your life.

I asked that wealthy friend of mine: If in your family, among your relatives or friends, someone became richer than you, would you feel jealous or not? He reflected and said, “Yes, I would; jealousy would arise—if any of them became richer than me. Although I’ve made everyone wealthy, none of them is richer than I am. But if someone were, I would feel jealous.”

Then I said: The pleasure you are taking is of the ego. You are enjoying being the giver—and them the supplicants. You have transformed all your friends and loved ones into beggars. One day they will all gather and murder you. And then you will go around saying, “What a world! I do good, and in return I get evil.”

No, sir; the return of goodness is never evil. But who is it that truly does good? Even in the name of goodness, you do evil. Such beautiful names we give… we have given our diseases very lovely names, but the malady is hidden within.

You say, “I have done this all my life.”

No, sir—what Baba Malukdas speaks of, you will not be able to do. To do that, you must become a Baba Malukdas. It is not a matter of saying, not even of doing; it is a matter of being. What Baba Malukdas says can be done only by a Malukdas. You need Maluk’s intoxication, Maluk’s awareness, Maluk’s love—then what flows from your life will have an entirely different quality.

For now you have entertained yourself with counterfeit coins.

You say, “I have done this all my life.”

If you truly have done good, then the matter ends—why do you wait for others to do good to you? You did good: full stop. You savored the joy inherent in doing good—what more do you want?

The other gave you the opportunity to do good—is that not enough? Remain forever grateful to him, feel obliged—“You gave me a chance to serve.” But you are waiting for him to feel obliged, to acknowledge your favor—and to do something in return so that you get proof that your goodness was reciprocated. You did not do good; you wanted to make a deal. On the surface you showed you were doing good; underneath you wanted a transaction. You gave two coins and waited for four to come back. You want it returned with interest! And when you saw even the principal had sunk, you became angry.

“I showed compassion, served, sympathized—but no one even acknowledged the favor.”

How could anyone acknowledge a favor? Precisely because you wanted to extract acknowledgment, they did not. Had you not wanted it, perhaps people would have acknowledged it.

This world has very contrary rules—very contrary. If you desire respect, people will insult you. If you do not want respect, people will respect you. If you want to sit on people’s heads, they will throw you into the dust. If you fall at people’s feet, they will lift you onto their heads.

This world is very wondrous; its mathematics is very wondrous. Here, if you try to win, you will lose. And here, if you are willing to lose, no one can defeat you; your victory is certain.

That is all for today.