Kano Suni So Juth Sab #10

The language of destiny is dangerous. People have used the language of destiny only to postpone life. The moment you say, “It is destiny,” there is nothing left for you to do. It will happen, on its own; whenever it has to happen, it will happen.

Sannyas is a possibility, not a destiny. Destiny means: it is bound to be. Possibility means: if you want, it can be; if you don’t, it won’t. A seed’s becoming a tree is not destiny; it is a possibility. A seed can remain without ever becoming a tree. Not all seeds become trees; many die as seeds. And not all trees flower; many live and die without flowering.

Destiny means the inevitable—“it will be; it cannot be avoided.” Whatever you do or don’t do, the event will occur. Death is destiny. Whether you do anything or not, death will happen. It is implicit in birth. Sooner or later it is bound to be. In this life, other than death, nothing else is destiny. Everything else may happen or may not. It may be, it may not be. It depends on you. Whether the supreme poetry is born within you is merely a possibility, only a seed. You have brought the seed with you. A spring of song can burst forth. The veena lies in your heart; it can resound. But that it must resound—there is no such inevitability.

Inevitability is mechanicalness. And where there is inevitability, there is no freedom. If sannyas has to happen, then what remains of your freedom? What remains of your sovereignty? Then it becomes a compulsion, not mastery—rather, a kind of mechanical bondage.

No, sannyas is not destiny; it is a seed-like possibility. If you tend it, the matter will be taken care of. Give the right soil, gather water, allow the sun to enter, labor—and it will happen. Otherwise the seed will lie there like a pebble. And a seed that remains a seed—what difference is there between it and a stone? The difference appears only when the seed becomes a tree—when it rises into the sky and manifests itself in a thousand ways. Only then is the distinction known. If the seed remains a seed, what is the difference between a pebble and a seed? The pebble did not become a tree, and neither did the seed. The seed can become a tree, but it will require much of your cooperation.

You, on the contrary, oppose it. For the supreme to happen in your life you do not cooperate; you erect a thousand obstacles. You do not give the seed earth; instead, you pile stones around it. You do the opposite.

The seed of love should blossom, but you hoard money. Money will gather around love like stones. Where surrender should happen, in place of surrender you heap up slabs of ego, mountains of it.

The way you live, the possibility will die; there will be a miscarriage. Sannyas will never be born. And I will not say it is destiny, because the moment I say “destiny” you become complacent. You say, “Good—the burden is off. If it is going to be, the matter is settled.”

Understand this too: how dishonest man is. He even misuses the supreme principles of life. Whatever falls into his hands, he misuses. The givers give so that things may be used rightly. Those who spoke the language of destiny were supremely wise. What was their purpose?

There are those who have said, “It is destiny.” Why did they say it? They said it so that you might gain the trust that it is destined, and perhaps then you will begin to labor. If something is bound to happen, then let it happen. Certainly many have said, “It is destiny.” Many have said, “What is to be will be; it will happen.” But what was their purpose?

Those great knowers said “it will happen, it is going to happen” and emphasized it strongly to wake you from sleep: if it is going to happen anyway, then let it happen now. Why delay? Why postpone it till tomorrow? If it is going to happen tomorrow, let it happen today. Why suffer till tomorrow? Why endure anguish till tomorrow? Let it be today. Accept it today. If it is going to be anyway, why erect obstacles? All your obstacles will break and the event will occur.

The wise said: do not create obstacles—that was their purpose when they said sannyas is destiny. And they also said it so that, if you understand destiny, you will be freed from the past. The moment you see that someone abused you yesterday and that it was bound to happen, then the abuser bears no responsibility. It had to be. That abuse was meant to reach you; it was your fate. Then no ill will arises in you, no anger, no retaliation, because what had to be, happened. If you are walking down a road and a branch breaks off a tree and falls on your head and you bleed, you do not file a lawsuit against the tree, you do not hurl abuses at it, nor rush with an axe to cut it down. You say, “It had to be. It was a coincidence that I was under the tree and the branch broke.”

But when a person abuses you, you do not say, “It was just a coincidence: I was nearby, the man got angry, and he abused me—his branch broke and struck my head.”

The wise have said, “What had to be, happened.” Why? So that if this truly settles in you—that only what had to be happens—then what is there to complain about? Whom to complain against? What anger? Who will carry knots within, vowing revenge and retaliation? Then there will be no knots in your life. You will become simple. What had to be has been. A supreme acceptance will arise within you. And if only what is to be will be, then do not do otherwise. Any effort made otherwise will be wasted.

So certainly the knowers have said there is destiny. But their purpose was different. When you caught hold of the word, you changed the purpose. You turned it upside down. They had said, “What is to happen tomorrow is bound to happen; let it happen today.” You said, “If it is going to happen anyway, why should we bother? When it has to happen, it will happen.”

You changed the meanings; you made them the opposite. They said, “Do not postpone to tomorrow now. Let it happen today. Let the revolution happen today.” You said, “If it is going to happen anyway, what is the hurry? Why hurry? Let us have our fun till tomorrow; tomorrow it will happen anyway. Meanwhile let us enjoy the pleasures of the world. If it is going to happen anyway, then what is the hurry? Postpone it as long as you can. When it can no longer be postponed, when it has to happen, it will happen.” That is the meaning you took.

The wise had said that up to yesterday has already become the past—accept it, so that no burden of it remains on your mind. Keep this master key in mind. If you accept, where is the burden? It is your nonacceptance that creates the burden. You say, “It would have been better if it had not happened. It would have been better had this happened.” “If I had done this business and not that, I would have profited. If I had bought at that time, sold at that time, I would have gained. I did the reverse and incurred a loss.” You create great anxieties. If you can understand that only what had to happen happened—nothing else could have—then tathata, suchness, will be born within you. You will say, “All right. Why worry!” You will not keep looking back. If nothing else could have been, then where is the worry? Why look back? What is the point? What has happened has happened; in the happening it is finished.

The knowers said, “Whatever happens is what happens,” so that you might become unburdened of the past. What did you do? You did not become unburdened of the past; you did not use the word “destiny” in that way. Instead you became inactive. You said, “Whatever happens happens. What difference will our doing make?” And you sat down.

This country became inert, inactive, hugely lazy. What else is the reason that today this land is beggared and poor? The whole world kept growing affluent. This land was once the richest of all; it was once the golden bird. That very golden bird now lies like clay, while clay birds have become golden and are flying.

What happened to this country? What misfortune befell it? It was the misuse of priceless words. Those who said “destiny” said it so that tathata—suchness—might arise in you. Tathata did not arise in you; instead inaction arose. You said, “Then fine; then just sit.” Baba Malukdas did say it, didn’t he!

“The python does no service; the birds do no work.
Says servant Maluka: the giver of all is Ram.”

So sit. If Ram is the giver of all, why worry? He will give when he has to give. If he does not want to give, he will not.

But that is not Malukdas’s meaning. And you have read the wrong meaning into Malukdas’s line. You have always read the wrong meaning in the sayings of the saints; that is why you have gone astray. If even once a ray of the right meaning had descended into your life, you would be somewhere else. You would be on lofty peaks, touching golden summits, soaring far in the vast sky—not crawling like worms on the earth.

But you are in the habit of reading the wrong into everything. I understand where the hindrance comes from: you are wrong. Whatever falls into your hands, you distort its meaning. Whatever comes into your hand goes askew. No sooner does it touch your hand than you raise a thousand kinds of mischief with it. You seem incapable of grasping the right.

That is why a master like Dariya says: satsang. Left to yourself you will only do it wrongly. Sit with someone to whom the right has happened; learn from them. And understand it as they say it. Do not bring in your own understanding in between. Put your own understanding aside: set your intellect at the door. Where you remove your shoes, leave your intellect there too. When you come to me, come utterly like little children—ignorant. Blessed are the ignorant, because at least they have one virtue: they will not spoil it. They will receive what is given as it is given. They have no past memory with which to interpret, no scriptures. They have no dust of scripture upon them. Their mirror is clear.

This word is important. Have you understood me? The word “destiny” is very significant. But the way man has used it has become so wrong that I want to tell you: sannyas will not happen by itself. Knowing full well that it does happen by itself, I tell you that sannyas will not happen by itself. Fully knowing that whatever happens, happens by itself, still I tell you: do not get entangled in the word “destiny.” It will not benefit you. “Destiny” is too big a word; you are not yet able to rise to so big a word. You will drag it down into your own pit and make it small.

The word “fate” is very big. Only the fortunate are capable of understanding the word “fate.” The more unfortunate make poison out of the word “fate.” Therefore I say: if you can understand, then know—whatever happens is what happens. But where is that understanding yet? Someday you will understand. You will understand the language of the wise only when you become wise. Then there will be no difficulty. Then you will understand both things: why I said it is a possibility, and why I also added that in truth it is destiny. Right now these two seem contradictory to you, because from where you stand it is difficult to see their harmony and synthesis.

Let me also tell you why there is harmony between them. As you are, only the word “possibility” is meaningful. As I am, the word “destiny” is meaningful. From the plane on which you stand and look at life, only “possibility” will lead you forward. I have nowhere further to go, so the word “possibility” has no meaning for me now. The flowers have blossomed. From the blossoming of the flowers I know that whatever happens, happens of itself. What can ever be done by man? The day the ego dissolves, you too will know that nothing can really be done by man.

“Ram is the giver of all,” says servant Maluka.

But this is the last word. This is the utterance of one who has reached the peak. This Malukdas is a rare man—even among saints, rare. This is a very high statement. Only when your consciousness spreads its wings on that height will you understand it. Where you stand now, hold on to the word “possibility”—so that one day you can reach the place where the word “destiny” becomes intelligible.

My eyes are on you. So many times I will also say to you what is salutary for you—even if it is not one hundred percent true. If it is ninety-nine percent true, it will do—if it is beneficial for you. That one percent which is untrue, the day you know, you will drop it; it will not be much of a hindrance. But if I tell you the hundred-percent truth and you do not move an inch, then that truth becomes a great untruth for you.

A lie is a politician. A lie is a diplomat. A lie is skilled at seduction. A lie is a clever salesman. It has to be. Truth simply comes and stands there without advertisement. A lie advertises itself in a thousand ways, because it doesn’t trust itself. It knows that if it can get by on advertising, it will. A lie has no legs of its own. Even the little journey it makes, it makes on crutches. Crutches… truth has no need of them.

That’s why it often happens that you understand the lie—because it advertises, it tempts, it promises. It waves big invitations before you, paints lush green gardens. It carries you away into fantasies and dreams.

And truth just stands there, stark and naked. It doesn’t call out, it doesn’t knock at your door, it makes no noise, there are no bands and drums. It doesn’t advertise, it doesn’t entice; it simply stands before you. And when truth says nothing—when truth is silent, wordless—you are not impressed.

You want someone to cajole you, to explain, to allure you. The lie does all this. Truth does none of it. Truth does not “do” anything at all. And through the ages, the lie has trained us to function in its system.

Consider this… Bertrand Russell mentions in a book that once an experiment was conducted. Ten scientists signed in favor of a certain toothpaste, but its sales did not increase. Nobody knew the scientists’ names anyway. They might have been great scientists, but who knows their names? People glanced and weren’t moved. And that toothpaste really was made by a scientific method.

Then a different toothpaste—pure humbug, no substance in it at all; a product created for the experiment—got the signatures of ten actors and actresses, who declared their sparkling teeth were thanks to that toothpaste. Sales soared. People don’t trust scientists. The scientist spoke plainly, in his own manner: “It contains this much of this element, and that much of that element. The probability of strengthening teeth is so much; the probability of strengthening gums is such-and-such.” He spoke the language of science—but who understands that? He spoke of chemistry.

The actress spoke the language you understand. She stood there, laughing, a naked actress—laughing, with pearl-like teeth. That language you grasp. You are children. You understand pictures, not concepts. And you didn’t really get that you were buying a toothpaste. When you bought that toothpaste, you were buying that naked woman. It was her laughter that was being sold. You don’t even care whether her laughter has anything to do with toothpaste.

When Mulla Nasruddin turned one hundred, reporters came and asked, “What’s the secret of your strength and health?” He said, “Give me two-four days. I can’t reveal the secret yet. After four or five days I can.” They said, “That’s too much. What will change in four or five days that you’ll be able to reveal your secret then? You’ve lived a hundred years—you must know it now.” He said, “Brother, I don’t know it yet myself. Talks are underway with several companies. One says, ‘Promote my vitamin pill.’ Another says, ‘Promote my bread.’ Another says, ‘My biscuits.’ Wait a few days. Whoever pays the most, that will be my secret.”

You understand only one language—the language of deception—because you have lived in it. Untruth touches precisely the nerve by which you get influenced.

Haven’t you noticed? Look at your newspapers’ advertisements. You’ll be shocked. Want to sell a car? Put a naked woman beside it—or half-naked; and remember, half-naked is more beautiful than fully naked. Don’t think she’s half-naked out of modesty. A half-naked woman is more beautiful than a fully naked woman. When something is hidden, there remains the possibility of revealing; when something is hidden, you can unveil it in imagination. If she is completely naked right there, imagination stalls—there’s nothing left to do. So you hide a little.

Want to sell a car? Place a naked woman. Want to sell toothpaste? Place a naked woman. Want to sell anything. No connection whatsoever… I saw an ad: for a Parker fountain pen a naked woman was draped over a shoulder. What connection could a naked woman have with a Parker fountain pen? But there is a connection—the advertiser knows it. You won’t really buy the Parker; you’ll buy the picture.

And if the naked woman appeals to you—and she will; that’s what the advertiser relies on—he simply associates what has to be sold with what already pleases you. Association—that’s the trick.

Truth comes plain, simple, bare—without advertisement. It doesn’t stroke your weaknesses; it just stands there. Truth doesn’t “appeal.” Truth is religious; untruth is political.

That’s why politicians give such grand promises. And once the election is over, neither the people ask what became of those promises nor do the politicians ask. The matter ends. And man is such that even if he is deceived for centuries, he goes on being deceived. At most, he won’t fall for this politician next time—but he’ll fall for another.

And politicians are in collusion. When one fails, another succeeds. By the time the second one fails, you have forgotten what the first did. Your memory is clean again; oblivion sets in. People’s memory is so weak—two days, and that’s a lot. Then you are ready again.

Thus man has been exploited for centuries. A saint may not appeal to you, but the priest does—because the priest speaks your language. The saint speaks his own language—sadhukkadi. He has known something and lays that knowing before you. If it appeals, fine; if it doesn’t, fine. There is no effort to make it appeal. No insistence. He has nothing to sell. He won’t try to make you buy. That’s where the miss happens.

In Western shops, salesmen have been replaced by saleswomen. Now you hardly find men selling things; women have taken over—because one thing has become clear: a woman sells more skillfully. And even there, care is taken that she be beautiful.

You go to buy a pair of shoes. What does it matter who sells? You should be looking at the shoe: which one bites less, which is softer, which is stronger, which will last, whose sole will hold. Your attention should be on the shoe. But they need to distract you. If your attention goes to the shoe, it will be harder to sell. The surest way to distract is to place a beautiful woman before you. She quickly kneels and wipes your foot.

Now you forget the shoe and everything else. You came to put a shoe on your foot; now it may as well be placed on your head. You lose your sense. And this beautiful woman is wiping your feet. She slips a shoe on, steps back and says, “How beautiful it looks! It suits your foot perfectly. I have seen many people try this shoe, but on no one did it look so good.” Now even if it’s pinching inside, you can’t say a word. Who says no to a beautiful woman? You say, “Wonderful! It does look good, it’s beautiful.” As she admires, you begin to like it—and the price rises within you: from twenty to thirty, thirty-five, forty. Once she sees she can ask forty and you’ll pay…

A lie comes with its entire machinery. It arrives with an army and arrangements on every side. Truth just comes and stands there, so it doesn’t appeal to you. Even if you were to meet God, you might not find Him appealing. Perhaps you do meet Him now and then on the path, but you don’t recognize Him. God does not come in a way your eyes can recognize. The ways your eyes have learned to recognize are the ways of crooks and charlatans, impostors and hypocrites.

Your question is important. You ask: Why is untruth so influential? Because, first, you are not looking for truth. You are looking for something else. Even when you talk of truth, you are not seeking truth—you are seeking something else. Whatever you desire, the lie promises it to you.

Understand this. To attain truth brings bliss—but truth will not come to your door saying, “I will give you bliss.” Truth says, “I am truth. Come, drown in me.” Bliss comes, but that is secondary; it happens of its own accord when you enter truth. The lie does not say, “I am truth.” It says, “Immerse in me; you will get happiness.” See the difference. Truth says only, “I am truth,” nothing more—no temptation. The lie won’t say what it is; it says, “Dive into me; you’ll get happiness—immense happiness. I’ll take you to a great heaven.”

Your longing is not for truth; your longing is for happiness. People come to me and say, “We’ll meditate—what will be the benefit?” Even in meditation—benefit? Then your very question is wrong. You will enter meditation only when you leave profit and greed behind. It’s not that there is no benefit in meditation—there is the supreme benefit. But if you go in the language of gain and greed, you will never enter meditation. Then you’ll get talismans and amulets from someone, have someone whisper mantras in your ear, fall for some trickster—because greed has you by the throat.

Should the language of gain be brought into the realm of meditation? Only one enters there who says, “I have run after greed enough and found nothing. I got many promises—never fulfilled. I went along with many lies and gained nothing. The whole chase of getting has become futile. I am so weary, so defeated—now I don’t want to run after greed. Take me to a state where no greed remains, no gain, no race, no lust, no thirst. Give me a glimpse of a state of mind where I am content in myself, where no demand remains.”

Then perhaps you can enter meditation. But you ask the wrong question. Since you asked it, someone will give you a wrong answer and tempt you. You will find someone somewhere ready to slip a noose around your neck. He’ll say, “You want benefit? We’ll give benefit. Your business and job will improve, you’ll get a promotion soon if you meditate.” Nonsense—but there are people who say it.

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi tells people that with Transcendental Meditation promotions will come. Jobs will go better, prestige will grow. You’ll succeed in life. If his meditation has had so much effect in America, there’s no other reason but this: America is very greedy. Terribly greedy. There’s only one yardstick to test everything: success. If it’s clearly stated what you’ll get, then anyone is ready to go along with it. In India it had little impact; hardly any mark. But in America it made a big splash—because America understands that language.

American psychologists say: the gurus who came from India and the East did not change America; rather, America changed them—that is certain. This is evident. None of those gurus altered America in the least, but if you analyze closely, America altered them completely. They began to speak a language that is not the language of the wise. They began to talk about things never spoken of in the world of the siddhas. They started chasing things in which a saint should have no interest. But it happens.

America is very powerful. Your so-called mahatmas prove very weak when they reach America. America wins. How? Simple. If you want to influence the American, speak the language of greed. And if you speak greed, truth cannot be there. Greed is the vehicle of untruth. You understand greed—therefore the lie becomes effective.

Then inch by inch other things shift too; everything is interconnected. And the irony is: since these things are not entirely untrue, the one who says them thinks, “I am not lying.” There are indirect effects—yes—but they should not be linked directly to meditation. For example: it’s true that if you become meditative, more success will happen in your life; no doubt. Not because meditation is related to success, but because meditation will calm you. A calm person makes fewer mistakes in whatever he does. Meditation gives peace, not success; it won’t give a promotion. It gives deep rest. It will have effects—across your entire life.

If you are a painter, you will become a better painter. If you are a sculptor, your sculpture will arise in new forms. If you are a musician, new life will enter your music. If you are a shopkeeper, your relationship with customers will become more harmonious. If you are an employer, a brotherhood will arise between you and your workers as never before. If you are a teacher, a new relationship, a new love, will bloom between you and your students.

Much will happen through this love—but these are indirect results. To link them directly is wrong. If you link them, you err. The man who asks me, “What will I gain from meditation?” I tell him, “Nothing.” Because if he is asking in the language of gain, he will never meditate. And if he never meditates, how will any gain come?

Don’t think this is senseless; it is straightforward, though paradoxical. The one who drops the language of profit—he gains from meditation. That’s why meditators have never said “You will gain”; they remained silent. They said, “Drop the language of gain—and meditation will happen. Once meditation happens, everything happens.” Learn that later.

Jesus has a famous saying: “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God; then all else shall be added unto you.” Don’t ask about other things. First seek the Kingdom of God, then everything else follows of its own accord—“all else shall be added unto you.” It comes by itself. Don’t bring it up. Don’t discuss it.

Surely he must have said this to someone who asked, “Will there be benefits from meditation? If I attain God, will wealth, position, prestige increase?” He must have replied, “Don’t talk this nonsense. Seek only God; everything else follows. Don’t raise that topic at all. It is petty. And if you raise it, you will not be able to seek God, because your eyes will remain fixed on those things.”

He whose eyes are fixed on wealth—how will he seek meditation? One who is not yet fed up with wealth—how will he seek meditation? Though it is true that he who attains meditation will see a great radiance in his entire conduct. Whatever he does, the way he does it, will have skill. When the mind is silent, its shadow falls on all the activities of life. The whole conduct is transformed. But that’s not to be talked about. If you talk of it, meditation won’t happen.

Untruth is clever. It says, “Come to me. Wealth will grow, status will rise, prestige will increase; you will get riches, paradise, heaven—everything. God too.” And you want these things. Your wanting is deep. Your cravings get exploited.

As long as there is craving in your mind, you will meet exactly those whom Dariya called sham saints—mere poseurs. You’ll fall into some masquerade. Haven’t you seen? When a cat chose a guru, she found a crane. It appealed to her. Same language—the cat’s, the crane’s. Have you ever seen a cat waiting to catch a mouse? How still she becomes—steady, steady-minded—utterly silent. The mouse has no idea anything is near. She even stops breathing.

That is the cat’s language. In that very language, the crane goes even further—he is more adept than the cat. He stands on one leg, utterly unmoving. He must be more still by nature, because the medium he stands in is water. The slightest tremor will be caught by the water; waves will rise, and the fish will disappear. The cat sits on the ground; that medium is not so sensitive to vibration—so if she trembles a little, no harm. Just don’t move, don’t make noise; otherwise the mouse will be frightened back into his hole.

So the cat sits upon solid ground; stillness is not so hard. But to stand in water, where the slightest vibration raises ripples—the fish won’t come near. When the cat sees the crane, she thinks, “Here is the guru! A great master. Blessed my fate. Let me take refuge at his feet.”

You are false—therefore falsehood is effective. That is my answer. You are false. You have an attachment to untruth; untruth speaks your language—the inner language of your desires. In the company of untruth, the bud of your heart begins to open.

Just look—examine life. On the street you see a beggar dying; tears don’t come to your eyes. Have you noticed? In a film, when you see a beggar dying, tears come. People take out handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes—tears come in the theater. That’s surprising. When a real beggar is dying, nobody weeps. You turn your face away in disgust: “When will we be rid of these beggars? Why does the government leave them on the road? They should be removed, eliminated, put to work.” A thousand arguments arise when you see the real beggar.

But in a film there is nothing at stake—the whole thing is play, a net of falsehood. There’s nobody on the screen; you know well the screen is empty—only light, a web of darkness and light. Yet your eyes grow wet. I know people who carry two or three handkerchiefs—one gets soaked, they put it away and take another. The more your handkerchiefs are soaked, the more you call the film “terrific, incomparable.” You come out weeping—and you call that a great film.

You are so affected by the false because you understand the language of falsehood. You do not understand the language of truth.

Tolstoy writes that his mother was so compassionate she would weep in the theater, wiping tears—and sometimes faint. If a scene turned very moving, she would faint. Many times they had to bring her home unconscious. She was mad for theater—she went daily.

And often, Tolstoy writes, when I was young I didn’t understand it; when I grew a bit older, I was amazed. Often it would happen—since he came from a princely, wealthy house; they had large estates—that the carriage she came in waited outside, because at any moment she might faint, or her mood might sour, or the play might not appeal, and she would rise and leave. So the coachman had to sit there in the carriage all along. And Russia—cold nights, snow falling.

Often the coachman would freeze to death sitting there. And his mother would come out of the theater weeping—and the coachman would be sitting there dead. He would be pushed aside, another man seated, and the carriage would roll on. But as for that dead coachman, Tolstoy writes, I never saw a single tear fall. This real man died, for her carriage, waiting for her—died because of her—and no feeling of compassion arose in her heart? A real man. For real people no compassion arose.

Have you noticed? In films, if someone falls in love, you feel such sympathy. But have you ever shown sympathy to a real lover? There you turn to poison. A real lover is dangerous, a loafer, a scoundrel. No one speaks well of the real lover—but for the film lover you feel great sympathy.

If, in a film, a wife torments her husband, your sympathies are with the husband. If the husband falls in love with another woman, you don’t feel “This is immoral”—but in real life? In real life, when immorality happens, no sympathy arises, no compassion—only, “They will go to hell.”

It’s astonishing that falsehood moves you and truth does not. When Majnun was alive, nobody was moved by him. The whole village cursed him; they expelled him from the village. All sympathies were with Laila’s father. If votes had been taken, they would all have gone to Laila’s father, who blocked the love.

But in the cinema—when you watch Laila-Majnun—your sympathies are entirely with Majnun. You think Majnun’s father is the villain spoiling the story.

Observe: you weep while reading novels. But life—life is filled with far more sorrow than any novel. Novels only sketch faint shadows. Life is heavy with suffering. Yet life does not move you—no pain, no compassion—because life is real and you understand the language of the unreal.

One who wants to move toward truth has to drop the language of falsehood. Slowly cut it out. Learn the language of facts. Such a person is moved less by poems and more by the great epic of life. He looks there.

Begin the search for facts, and you will recognize truth. Don’t drown yourself in novels. If your mind becomes “filmy,” there is danger—the danger that your eyes will be moved by things that are not.

A psychologist recently conducted research in America. The findings are astonishing, even painful. In the last five to seven years, several incidents have occurred there that are shocking.

In New York, an old woman was stabbed to death—just for her money bag, her purse. It was broad daylight; the road was busy. At least two hundred people saw it, but no one intervened. People shut their windows. “Why get into trouble?” Then police might demand testimony. Two hundred were present—but none would testify. “Then we’ll have to go to court… and who wants this hassle? The man with the knife is dangerous; he’ll have accomplices, the mafia may be behind him—who knows? Why get into it?” People turned their faces away and went. A young man stabbed an old, frail woman to death—only to snatch a purse. But no one stopped him. Two hundred people were there; if they wished, they could have stopped him right there. If they had only shouted loudly, the knife might have fallen from his hand. So many were present. Shops were open, people at their windows. They shut them.

There have been many such incidents in these years. Scientists and psychologists grew anxious: What is happening? Are people becoming insensate? Is compassion drying up? But the cause they found is surprising—television. You’ll be amazed: television, the cause?

In America, almost everyone watches four, five, six hours of television daily. A large portion of life goes into TV. People sit glued to chairs as if with gum and won’t move.

Why TV as cause? Because people watch murders on TV. They just watch. What else can you do with TV? You can only watch. Murders, thefts, robberies, wars—Vietnam—bombs dropped on innocent, unarmed people; children and women burning in bombs—people watch this five to six hours a day. Gradually a feeling arises that everything is to be watched. Not to be participated in—only watched. People have become spectators. Watching this false stream for hours, they internalize the language of falsehood. They become spectators. Now, when someone is stabbed on the road, it doesn’t occur to them that they should do something. Do? Why? Every day you watch six hours—stabbing, shooting—it just happens. It doesn’t occur. People have become spectators; not participants.

When I read that survey, I remembered an incident from Bengal, in Vidyasagar’s life. Vidyasagar was a great pandit. He went to see a play. In it, a man tormented a woman—tormented her in every way. Vidyasagar was filling with rage. A moment came when he forgot it was a play. The man reached the climax of his villainy; he caught the woman in the dark of night and was about to commit rape.

Vidyasagar leapt onto the stage and began to pull the man down and beat him with his shoe. People were shocked: what is this? What kind of play is this? They grabbed him: “What are you doing, Panditji?” He came to his senses—but he was drenched in sweat, eyes blood-red, shoe in hand.

The actor, though, was very skillful. He said, “Give me the shoe.” He took it and said, “This is the greatest award of my life. What bigger prize can an actor receive than that someone forget it’s acting?”

They say that shoe still remains in that actor’s home. The actor is dead, but his children have preserved it—the prize of Vidyasagar—because the actor played so well that Vidyasagar forgot it was acting.

One Vidyasagar—who, seeing acting, forgot it was acting and thought it real life. And in America the research says: when a real woman is being killed, people think it’s on the TV screen—let it happen. Spectators.

If your life begins to take too much relish in unreal things, the lie will be effective. If you want freedom from the lie, from its influence and its tricks, then gradually understand this: immerse yourself in facts. Life stands all around—naked, uncovered. Look at trees, at flowers, the moon and stars; look at women and men, the poor and the rich; the beggar on the road, a child’s gurgling laughter, a weeping man, falling tears, smiles—look at the facts of life. In these very facts you will catch a glimpse of truth. And there, somewhere within them, God is hidden.

But you go on searching in books. That’s why Dariya says: “Smeared with the ‘knowledge’ of scriptures, the body remains enwrapped.” The whole mirror has been covered with the dust of bookish, hollow, imaginary talk. How can the picture of God form on a mirror so covered?

First thing: as long as there is a need to pray, prayer cannot happen. Need means demand. Need means a desire for something other than God.

You went to the temple and asked, “O Lord, my wife is ill—make her well.” Or you asked, “My son is looking for a job and can’t find one. He’s been standing in front of offices for months. Now please take care of it.” The moment you ask for anything, where is prayer? What remains of prayer?

Or you thought, “I won’t ask for worldly things.” You went and said, “Lord, after death I do not want to come back to this world. Call me to heaven, call me to Yourself. Let there be no rebirth.” This too is prayer—but is it free of demand? It is still full of demand.

In fact, the very word “prayer” has come to mean asking. That’s why the one who asks is called a supplicant. People have prayed in order to ask for so long that gradually the word itself came to mean asking, and the one who prays became “the beggar.” True prayer happens only when no need remains.

Your question is apt: if there is no need, what will you pray for? Precisely when there is no need, prayer happens. My meaning of prayer is: thank you. Prayer means the feeling of gratitude. Prayer means ahobhava—a sense of wonder, a thankfulness that says, “What You have given is so much; I have come only to say thank you.”

Demand means, “What You have given is too little; I have come to complain.” Understand the difference—it’s as vast as earth and sky. Demand says, “What kind of giver are You? People call You a great giver—what nonsense! My boy can’t find a job, my shop won’t run—have some consideration. They say there may be delay in Your court, but there is no injustice. Yet there is both delay and injustice. Sinners are advancing; I, a virtuous man, am lagging behind. The good are nowhere to be seen; bad people sit on our heads. This injustice goes on. There has been much delay and plenty of darkness. Now stop it!”

When you demand, complaint is inevitable—otherwise, what would you demand for? Demand implies something is happening that should not, and something that should happen is not happening: “So make happen what should.” Demand means, “I’ve come to advise You. Your intelligence isn’t working properly—heed my counsel. I’m smarter; You’re less so.” All this is hidden in asking. Asking is insulting; it is irreligious.

When Jesus was hung on the cross, at the last moment a cry escaped his lips: “O Lord, what are You showing me?” A complaint slipped out. A doubt arose. It became clear that he felt, “You are doing something wrong. What are You showing me?” As if what was happening did not match Jesus’ expectations. Perhaps he had expected something else—“If I am crucified, then this miracle will occur…” The human mind imagines all sorts of things. But nothing was happening; instead the nails were being hammered into his hands, his throat was parched with thirst—and no miracle was occurring. No mercy seemed to be pouring from God. “And I am the son of God, and no attention is being given to me. What is going on? This is injustice, an excess. Enough is enough; now I must speak.”

So the cry came: “O Lord, what are You showing me?” But Jesus was a deeply sensitive man. Something long buried in the unconscious surfaced. Perhaps at no other moment could it have surfaced; only at the gallows did it emerge. The suffering dug so deep that what lay at the very bottom rose up. Never before had he said such a thing.

Sometimes suffering reveals your reality. That’s why suffering scours and polishes you; only in moments of suffering do you find your own truth. In joy one stays afloat on the surface; in suffering one descends to the depths, into ravines, into one’s inner well, into darkness.

Earlier Jesus had never complained. He had always given thanks, always lifted eyes filled with gratitude to God. But the cross came. Till the last breath he held himself, but when the nails were driven and it seemed this was final and still no miracle came, then from the deep unconscious that feeling appeared.

Like a bubble rising in water: it rises from the sand at the bottom—tiny at first—and as it ascends, it grows, because the pressure lessens. At the surface, with no pressure left, it is fully visible.

One such lone bubble had remained. In my view that was the obstacle to Jesus becoming the Christ. In my eyes, Jesus became the Christ on the cross. A tiny flaw had remained—very small. Had he died without the cross, perhaps no one would have noticed it. The cross cleaned it thoroughly. The cross proved to be a great experiment. The cross turned the seeker into the realized one.

In that moment Jesus became enlightened. He saw it. He was a man of depth and sensitivity and insight. A tiny blemish had remained somewhere; even that last flaw fell away. Instantly Jesus saw: “A complaint has come out—out of my mouth! Prayer has missed. In this final hour prayer is failing? All my life I prayed, and in this very hour, when prayer should be, it falters? People say even if you never remembered God your whole life, if you remember at death, it suffices. Here the reverse is happening: all life I remembered, and at death I spoiled it.”

And it will be so—mind this. Even though Jesus remembered all his life, at death forgetfulness was arising. So don’t think you will forget all your life and at death it will be fine. Don’t fall into this madness; it’s outside all arithmetic. It won’t happen.

Don’t think as with Ajāmila: he sinned all his life—murderer, bandit—never went to the temple, never uttered God’s name. But by some accident he named his son Narayan.

In those days, most names were God’s names. Even a sinner, when naming, had few options: Ram, Narayan, Vishnu, Purushottam—almost all names were divine. Even today, among Muslims, nearly all names are names of God. The Hindu scripture Vishnu Sahasranama lists a thousand names of God. Most Muslim names are names of God.

There was no choice; so he named the boy Narayan—without thinking, “This is God’s name.”

At death, panicking, he called his son: “Narayan!”—to tell him some last thing, perhaps where he had buried his loot. Having stolen and cheated all his life, he must have hidden it; banks didn’t exist then. He wanted to tell his son, “Where it’s hidden—otherwise a life’s ‘hard work’ will go to waste.”

But the story says the Narayan above heard, “He is calling me.” Delighted, that Narayan instantly summoned Ajāmila to heaven at death. Ajāmila went to heaven.

Nonsense. A two-penny tale. Fabricated by tricksters—the priests who say, “Go on being a thief and cheat all your life; no harm. At your last breath, say the Name once.” They take it further: “Even if you can’t say it—who knows when death comes? Your tongue may falter—then the priest will whisper the Name in your ear; that too will do.”

They pour Ganges water into a dying man’s mouth. He is dying—what difference does any water make? He has no awareness; his teeth are clenched, and they pry them open with a spoon to pour the water. All life long he never went to the Ganges; now bottled Ganga is brought to him. All life he never called the Lord; now a priest, for a fee, chants the Name into his ear. Such stupidities persist because they suit your falsehoods.

But Jesus saw. And immediately he spoke a second sentence. The first: “O Lord, what are You showing me?” Then a moment of silence—and that silence was the silence of revolution. In that very instant, the transformation happened: Joseph’s son Jesus became God’s son, the Christ. In that one moment of stillness Jesus saw the bubble rising within—complaint was still there. Instantly he said, “O Lord, let Thy will be done, not mine. Thy will be done, not mine.”

Prayer happened.

Complaint became prayer. The same energy that was becoming complaint turned into prayer. The bubble of complaint burst; a fragrance of gratitude spread through every fiber of his being: “Let Thy will be done. Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done. Who am I? Let it be as You will. If it is the gallows—so be it. Who am I? Your will alone is the right will. My will will go wrong; if I come in, error will enter.”

This is what I call prayer. Prayer means acceptance: “You are right. As You are, it is right. What You have done is right; what You are doing is right; what You will do is right. You cannot be wrong; You are always right. If sometimes I see wrong, it is my mistake.”

Prayer means ahobhava—a sense of wonder. Prayer is a celebration, a dance of gratitude. For me, prayer means: whenever a feeling of gratitude arises, dance—say thank you to the Lord: “You have given breath, eyes, ears.” You saw the greenery of a tree—these ashoka and cypress trees—have you never felt moved to thank? Had there been no eyes, had you been blind, you would have missed this greenery, this epic of green. The birds’ chirping, the cuckoo’s coo—because you are not deaf, you can hear it.

So, on hearing the cuckoo, have you ever thanked God: “Lord, You gave me ears”? On seeing the ocean’s towering waves, have you danced and said, “Lord, You gave me life so I could witness this unparalleled dance”? On seeing the Himalayan peaks draped in snow, has your heart not felt to bow and place your head at God’s feet: “Your play is boundless!” That is prayer.

For me, prayer means thank you. How will gratitude arise? That is not the question. For what reason will it arise? Not the question. That’s why I don’t tell you to make some formal prayer—to go to temple or mosque. The mosque-temple prayer will be false. Do you need a mosque or temple to pray? His temple is all around. It is where you are sitting. Just open your eyes, open your ears. He is everywhere. Let a feeling of gratitude pervade your every pore, your every moment. Let each hour say, “Thy will be done.” This I call being an emperor.

You ask: “You say, pray like an emperor, not like a beggar.”
How could you pray like a beggar? A beggar’s mind is on alms.

A beggar catches you on the road: “O giver, give me something. You are so generous, so pure, so noble.” But does he care about these things? He is flattering; his interest is in your pocket. These words are tricks to get money out of you. His eyes are on your money. If you give, he thanks; if you don’t, he curses. Remember, beggars curse when you don’t give—most people give out of that fear.

But understand a second thing you may not have noticed: if you do give, they think you’re a fool. If you don’t give, they abuse you, “Wretch! Not two coins!” If you do, they think, “We got him—big fool. Looked smart, but in a minute we toppled him and got the money.”

He has nothing to do with you. Keep in mind: what has a beggar to do with you? Was he sitting there waiting for you as a great soul, longing to bow at your feet and be blessed? No. He was watching for someone with a warm pocket. Beggars don’t ask from everyone.

Try this: one day dress in shabby rags—broken shoes, tattered cap, some ancestral, moth-eaten coat—and walk by. That same beggar will turn his face: “Asking from him would be a hassle—he might snatch from me. He himself looks ready to grab. Move along—other customers will come.”

And if you come out in polished shoes, fine clothes, in a car, the beggar stands in front, praying: “O giver, have mercy on this supplicant. With you such a great giver alive, shall I die hungry? If I don’t get food today…”

A beggar’s language is not prayer; it is cunning. And when you stand at God’s door like a beggar, that too is cunning. Then you say, “O purifier of the fallen! You are great; I am lowly. I am sinful; You are the Supreme.” But this is all trickery. It isn’t true.

A man came to me and said, “My honor is at stake.” I asked, “What happened?” He blurted out, “My honor is at stake!” I asked again, “What happened?” He said, “I am a devotee of Hanumanji. I go to his shrine. My son couldn’t get a job. I gave an ultimatum: within fifteen days, get him a job, Maharaj—otherwise you’ve seen the worst of me. Within fifteen days he got the job. What grace of Hanumanji!”

I said, “Whose honor was at stake—yours or Hanumanji’s?” Then I said, “It was coincidence that your son got the job. Never give such ultimatums—by and by Hanumanji’s boat will sink.”

He asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “If you don’t believe me, test it. Tomorrow go again and ask for something else. Give another fifteen-day ultimatum. Do it two or three times, because once proves nothing—once could be chance.” He said, “You may be right. I’ll try.” He tried a few times—nothing happened. He came back and said, “You were right. Their honor was saved; nothing came of it. All useless. I’ve been reciting the Hanuman Chalisa for a month. I gave four ultimatums—no result. All my faith is gone.”

But he was angry with me too: “You shouldn’t have done this. I had great faith.” I said, “What kind of faith is that? It wasn’t faith; that’s why it vanished. Have you ever seen true faith go? When faith comes, it stays. These are counterfeit faiths.”

When you pray like a beggar, it isn’t prayer. When you pray like a beggar, there is no faith. It is a sign of unfaith. You are making your relationship with God worldly—give-and-take, shopkeeping, bargaining. You are striking a deal. Where can prayer be in a deal? In a deal, prayer gets crushed; its life is destroyed.

Ramakrishna once said to Vivekananda… Vivekananda’s father died, leaving heavy debts. He had lived large-heartedly; that’s how he had a son like Vivekananda. He left nothing saved—only liabilities. As truly good men often do.

So Vivekananda was in difficulty—he had to repay debts. He was the only son; there was his mother too. Sometimes there was no food in the house. Sometimes there was only enough for either mother or son. Then Vivekananda would say, “A friend has invited me today; I’ll eat there. You eat at home.” And he would wander the streets, and then return home cheerful—putting on cheer at the door while hunger burned in his belly—rubbing his stomach, even giving a fake belch so his mother would be reassured. For she doubted: how often will some friend invite him? No one ever came with an invitation.

Ramakrishna heard and said, “You fool! Why don’t you ask the Mother? Go inside. What is a mother for? Why don’t you ask Kali? What do you need? Go and ask. I’ll sit outside; you go in.” When Ramakrishna says so, Vivekananda went in. He stayed an hour and returned with tears of joy. Ramakrishna asked, “So, you got it? You asked?” Vivekananda said, “What are you saying—ask what? What is there to ask?” Ramakrishna said, “Why did you go then?” Then he remembered and said, “Forgive me—I forgot. When I stand before Her, a thankfulness arises so deep that the wish to ask, the very thought to ask, disappears. Is what She has given so little? She has given me to me—what more could there be to give?”

Ramakrishna said, “Go again. This won’t fill your stomach—ask.” He sent him three times. And three times Vivekananda returned, overwhelmed and forgetting. Then Ramakrishna laughed: “Today was your test. Had you asked, my relationship with you would have ended. Today you passed—perfectly. I pushed you three times, and three times you came back without asking. You have received the secret of prayer.”

Prayer is not asking. Prayer is not beggary. Prayer is the emperor’s thank you. You have been given so much that you are an emperor. What else would make you one? What is lacking? A religious person is one who looks within and finds no lack—who says, “What more could there be? It cannot be more than this. What has been given is boundless.”

Out of this feeling, gratitude comes like a shadow. A sense of utter blessedness, an ahobhava, rises like fragrance—rising to the far sky. As light rises from a lamp, as scent rises from incense, as fragrance rises from flowers, so does the aroma called prayer. Only emperors can pray. Prayer is always without cause. The moment a cause comes, prayer dies; cause brings business. When cause drops, love arrives.

Prayer is love. Love is causeless. If you love someone, can you give reasons for why? If you can, it isn’t love.

Suppose you fall in love with a woman and someone asks, “Why?” and you say, “She has a big estate, and she’s the only child; it will all be mine.” Is that love? There is a cause, but no love. If you say, “Her body is beautiful,” again that’s a cause. Then you are a connoisseur of skin; a dealer in hide—what Ashtavakra called a tanner.

Ashtavakra once told the scholars in King Janaka’s court, “Why have you gathered all these tanners here?” Janaka had invited the realm’s pundits. Ashtavakra’s father, a great scholar, had also gone; a debate was on. Janaka wanted life’s riddles resolved. Ashtavakra came home; his mother said, “Your father has been gone long—he hasn’t returned. He must be caught up in debate.” Scholars don’t budge till they win. Ashtavakra went to fetch him. He was crooked in eight places; hence the name Ashtavakra. Seeing him, the assembly laughed. Seeing them laugh, Ashtavakra laughed louder. A hush fell. Janaka asked, “I can see why they laugh—your gait is camel-like. With eight crooked limbs, even worse than a camel. So they laughed—scholars are the most foolish of men; fools laugh where compassion should arise. But why did you laugh?” He said, “I laughed because you have assembled tanners here. Why are these tanners crowding your hall?” Janaka was startled: “You call them tanners? Be careful—they are my kingdom’s great scholars.” He said, “They may be—but they know only skin, not the inner. I am crooked outside—look within. You won’t find a straighter consciousness than mine.”

That very incident became the turning point of Janaka’s life. He rose and touched Ashtavakra’s feet. Without entering debate, Ashtavakra won. He became the guru, and the great Gita of Ashtavakra was born.

If you say, “I love this woman because her skin is fair, her face beautiful, her body in perfect proportion,” you are a tanner, not a lover. If you say, “She is very intelligent, very thoughtful,” that too is not love; it has a cause.

Love is causeless. You say, “I don’t know—there is just love, without reason. When I look for a cause, I find none. In her presence waves rise in my heart. In her presence everything else is forgotten. Only near her do I sense God. Near her I feel life has meaning. There is no other reason; the meaning of my life comes from her presence.” Then it is love.

The day all causes drop from your life, that day prayer happens. When causes drop between two people, there is love. When causes drop between an individual and the Vast, there is prayer. And the day no cause remains, you become an emperor.

What does “emperor” mean?

Swami Ram Tirtha called himself an emperor, a badshah. He wrote, “Six Edicts of Emperor Ram.” He was a fakir. People asked, “Why do you call yourself an emperor?” He said, “What else should I call myself? You say I have nothing—that is exactly why I am an emperor. I need nothing. All my needs are fulfilled. The day I was joined with God, all my needs were fulfilled. Now I have no need, no demand, no requirement. I seek nothing, hunt nothing; the running is over. That is my emperorship.”

That is why we honored Mahavira, who left the throne and became a mendicant—because we saw that in beggar’s robes his true kingship shone forth. And we also saw that those sitting on thrones are beggars. In name they are kings—but the asking goes on and on; there is no end to it. The bigger the realm, the bigger the demand.

Prayer arises only when you understand: “As I am—made by the Lord—how can there be a mistake? How can there be error? I am God’s creation; where room for fault?”

To my sannyasins I say one thing again and again, every day: as you are, you are utterly beautiful. Where you are is the destination. Being just as you are is the whole secret. Drop the running. Don’t ask for wealth—and don’t even ask for liberation. Don’t ask at all. Let asking go. As you are, you are complete; as you are, you are perfect.

For the one who attains this state, the fragrance of prayer begins to rise in life.

Athato jijñasa—athato prema jijñasa. With this we began Dariya’s sutras. Good to complete it here. Because love is the beginning and love is the end. Love is the seed and love is the fruit. Love is the start and the final expression.

Athato prema jijñasa.

We have searched for everything in life—wealth, position, respectability—yet we have not searched for love; hence we seem crippled, impoverished. The inquiry into love, the search for love, finally becomes the search for the divine. Why? Because in love the ego dissolves, melts. Love means your death—your disappearance. Where you are not, God is. Your presence is the obstacle; your absence becomes the door.

Die, O yogi, die—dying is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh was seen.

Dissolve. Become zero. Let this identity go—this ego, this I-sense. The moment the I is gone, samadhi arrives. This I-sense is like ice; let it melt in love. When it melts, it becomes a river.

Have you seen? Water has three states; so does human consciousness. Water can be like a stone—hence we even call ice a stone of water: hard, inert, no movement at all. The flow is blocked.

When it melts, it becomes water. With water, movement comes. Flow begins, life begins. And water can become steam. As steam it rises into the sky—supreme life, wings appear.

A stone goes nowhere. Ice lies there like a rock—no coming, no going, no movement, no growth, no evolution. Wherever it is, it remains, dead and inert.

In water there is movement. The search for the ocean begins. Water sets out. Have you noticed? Pour a little water in your courtyard and even that begins to move toward the ocean. So little water, yet it longs for a journey so long. It sets out for the ocean, searching for a way, seeking a path. A mere handful of water, moved by the urge to meet the sea, begins to flow—and it finds its way in the end. With the help of a gutter it reaches a stream, with the help of a stream it reaches a river, with the help of a river it reaches a great river, and with the help of the great river it enters the ocean. Every single drop is capable of reaching the sea.

Look at a drop and you won’t believe it could travel thousands of miles. It could be lost anywhere, crushed anywhere, finished. But no—once movement has come, the ocean, however far—millions of miles away—ceases to be far. Once movement has come. And an iceberg, even lying by the shore of the ocean, is still far, for the ice has no movement. An iceberg can sit at the edge and yet remain distant—until it melts, flows in the ocean, and merges.

And then there is another, inexpressible state. Water seeks the ocean; steam seeks the sky—something vaster still. The ocean still has a boundary. It is big, very big, bigger than rivers—but the difference between river and ocean is of quantity, not of quality. The sky is a qualitative shift: endless, shoreless; it begins nowhere and ends nowhere.

The moment water falls into the ocean, the journey to the sky begins. It starts rising on the support of the sun’s rays. As it reached the sea by taking the support of rivers, now it ascends toward the sky by resting on rays—making ladders of light, climbing on invisible threads of radiance.

These are the three states of consciousness as well. When there is no love in your life, you are frozen like ice. When love comes, you melt. That is why I am utterly in favor of love: at least melt. Prayer is still far off—for now, at least love. Melt near someone—some woman, some man, some friend, some son, some mother, some father. Somewhere learn the lesson of melting. Once you melt, the journey toward the ocean begins. Love melts you.

Then, the day you reach the ocean and begin to move toward the sky—that day is prayer. Love means: melt between two persons. Prayer means: melt between the person and the Whole. But the lesson is first learned between two persons.

Therefore only one who has known love can ever know prayer. One who has not known love will not know prayer. Hence I side with love—because I see that love ultimately becomes prayer.

These are the three levels. Sex: stone—frozen. Yet in sex love is hidden, as water is hidden in ice. That is why I am not anti-sex. How could I be? If you oppose ice, where will you get water from? You must go beyond the ice, but without enmity—cultivate friendship.

Make friends with sex. Seek in sex a glimpse of the divine. In intercourse, catch the ray of samadhi. Melt it. Let sex melt into love. The moment love happens, transformation has happened. Ice lay stuck, going nowhere; love begins to move. Momentum comes, ripples arise, life flowers.

Then do not stop at love. Let it become prayer. First melt near a person; then melt near the Whole. If meeting the one brings so much nectar, imagine how much will come from meeting the Infinite! If between a man and a woman such songs of love can arise, just think of the mystics—Dariya, Kabir, Dadu, Nanak—those who, in just such intercourse, are united with the Vast. Samadhi is intercourse with the immeasurable.

Union between two bodies is sex.
Union between two souls is love.
Union between two souls, two emptinesses, is samadhi.

Two bodies can meet only for a little while—not long—just a moment, then separation. Every friendship of the body breaks into enmity; every marriage of the body becomes divorce.

Minds can meet a little longer, but not forever. At most for a lifetime—and in another life they part again.

But when two souls meet—when two zeros draw near—there is only one zero. Then there is no separation, no distance.

So transform sex into love, and love into prayer. Thus the Rama hidden in kama will flow as love, become movement, and rise in prayer—becoming the vast sky.

Therefore, when I began these sayings of Dariya, I said: Athato prema jijñasa—now, therefore, an inquiry into love.

Enough for today.