Kano Suni So Juth Sab #2

First thing: this single birth is not your whole story. Behind this birth lies the dust of many lives. That Dariya was uneducated—this is about this life. But across lifetimes, who knows how many scriptures have passed through, how many words have been heard? So whenever we speak of one life, don’t forget that a whole queue stands behind it—births in a line, layer upon layer of conditioning.

Even a small child is not entirely innocent. All kinds of flaws are gathered within; given time, they will appear. For now they are seeds, so they are not seen. When they sprout, when branches and leaves spread, then they will be visible. Even the tiniest child, in whose eyes no dust is yet visible, sits holding great storms within. Great storms are brewing inside. The eye seems empty; the screen seems clear—preparation is underway. Soon the assaults will begin. The crowd of hidden impressions within will erupt. As the child grows, the crowd will surge, storms will rise, squalls will surround him. Therefore even a child is not truly innocent—he only appears so.

Only a saint is innocent—the one who has wiped away the dust of all lifetimes, the one who has wiped away dust, period. Nothing remains behind him, nothing ahead of him. The day there is no past, that very day there is no future—because the future is born of the past. The past is the maker of the future; the past holds the key to the future.

What you have been, and what you have accumulated, keeps shaping your future. The day you are completely free of the past, that day you are free of the future too. The day the old dust of conditioning departs, nothing remains to be done; the mirror is empty.

That, in the truest sense, is childhood. Only a saint is a child. A child is not yet a child—he is only the preparations for becoming big. He waits to be ready, to leap into the world. He stands on the shore of the world, taking training for the world.

One who has entered the world many times, become weary, defeated, disheartened—who has seen the world from all corners, recognized it on every side and found it futile, garbage; there is no gold in it, no diamonds here; here man only loses himself—no true earning happens here; one who has recognized failure to the hilt, whose defeat is final, that person steps out of the world’s storms. Then, in the true sense, he becomes a child.

This is what we call dvija—the twice-born—because it is a second birth. One birth was received from the parents; that is not a great birth—only the body changed, the mind remained the old one. The bottle was changed; the wine remained old. If you put old wine in a new bottle, it creates the illusion that the wine is new. The child’s body is new; his conditioning is not new. The life-force in the child is very ancient—just as ancient as the world is. We have been moving in this world from forever. We have undertaken countless journeys, begged on countless roads, endured innumerable sufferings, sorrows, anxieties. And we have read the scriptures many times. Even if we did not read them ourselves, we heard them.

And scriptures float in the air. One need not be literate for that. The dust of scriptures rides on the winds; words are floating in the air. Reading and writing are not essential to pick up conditioning. To be free of conditioning, you must be free of the other—not only free of scriptures. You do listen to people, don’t you?

As a child grows he listens to mother and father, to the family; he hears the neighbors, the news. He hears the bell of the temple; he sees worship being performed. The pundit repeats scripture; parrots will chant scripture; the child will hear—and impressions will form. Conditioning does not occur only by reading. If reading were the only source of conditioning, then the uneducated would all be free.

The uneducated also gather conditioning; their ways are just the old ways. They don’t collect it in the new way by going into the texts themselves; someone else has gone into the scriptures, and they listen to him.

So first point: behind one life stands an endless procession of lives.

Second point: even if you are uneducated, it makes no difference. The scriptures are everywhere, their echo resounds. Pass by a mosque and you will hear the name of Allah. Pass by a temple and you will hear the name of Ram. Having heard, a conditioning forms. You will see your mother worshiping, your father bowing in a temple.

Conditioning comes from many directions in many forms. To remain unconditioned is impossible; there is no way. One kind of conditioning or another will settle. The only way to be unconditioned is that one day you wake up and break all identifications with conditioning—wipe off all the dust. One day, awaken and dust it clean.

While asleep, dust inevitably gathers. Don’t think, “If I was asleep, how would dust gather?” In dreams too, dust rises. Even if you sleep at night, dust is in the air; it settles on your clothes. In the morning you find your clothes a bit dirty. You were sleeping; you did nothing—still the dust was moving.

And the more asleep you are, the faster dust settles—because the one who would dust it off is not present. When you wake up, the duster is ready—moment to moment he brushes away the dust as it falls, does not let thick layers build up.

Dariya said, “The dust of the scriptures that had settled on me, the Master blew once, with a single word it all flew away.” What could this mean? So much ancient dust of conditioning—and with one word it was gone! It does not seem to add up; it sounds unreasonable. But it is not unreasonable; it is mathematics.

Imagine a room that has been dark for a thousand years. You bring in a small lamp. Do you think the darkness will say, “I am a thousand years old—I won’t go so easily. Whether a thousand years old or a hundred million, what difference does it make? The lamp comes—and the darkness goes. Instantly it goes. It cannot hesitate even for a moment. It cannot say, “I am not a new resident here; I didn’t just check into an inn last night. This is my house; I have been here for thousands, millions of years. You cannot simply arrive and evict me.” No—darkness can do nothing. Darkness is powerless. There is no strength in it, no existence of its own. A small ray, a tiny flame of a lamp, shatters the oldest darkness.

So it is with the Master. A small ray of truth is enough to brush away the dust of all the scriptures. Why is it enough? Because what you have grasped from words, from hearing, is not yours. And what is not yours is false.

Let me repeat it. Tie this knot in your handkerchief: what is not yours is untrue. Untrue does not mean the content as such is false. It may not be false—perhaps a saint said exactly that. When the saint said it, it was true; when you repeat it, it becomes false. Your repetition is parrot-learning; how can truth be present in parroting?

Dariya spoke something—true. Now you know the words; you memorize them; you commit his verses to heart. Your voice might even be finer than Dariya’s; you might pronounce the language more purely than he did. It may be that if Dariya himself stood beside you and recited, your words would sound more forceful. Yet in you they would be false.

In this world of the blind there is a great difficulty. Here sometimes the false appears very powerful, because falsehood can recruit a thousand arguments. Here sometimes truth appears utterly powerless, because truth does not assemble arguments. Truth stands naked—without ornaments, without garments, without decoration. And you are so entangled in ornaments, garments, and decoration that when a naked truth stands before you, you cannot recognize it.

I have heard: two small children were passing by a nudist camp—a settlement of people without clothes. They peeped through a small drainage hole in the wall. Everyone inside was naked—women and men. The boys were perhaps six or seven, schoolbags slung over their shoulders, returning from school. They were in great difficulty: which were women, which were men? They had never seen a naked woman or naked man; they knew only one distinction—if a sari is worn, it is a woman; without a sari, a man. Now they were in trouble. When they got home they said to their parents, “We passed the colony of the naked; we peeked.” The mother asked, “Who were there—men or women?” They said, “How can we tell? They were wearing no clothes!”

Do you understand the children’s point? Their recognition is a recognition of clothes. But how much beyond clothes does your recognition go? If truth stands naked, you will not recognize it. You recognize truth by its clothes. If it wears the garments of Hinduism and you were born in a Hindu home, you will recognize: yes, this is right—this is what the Ramayana says, this is what the Gita says. If you were born in a Muslim family, you might not recognize it—these garments are unfamiliar. You will recognize it if it comes dressed in a verse of the Quran.

But is truth bound to the Quran, or to the Gita? Does truth have any garments? Truth is without clothes. The clothes have been put on by us; they are our donation to truth.

Remember: sometimes you may use exactly the words the saints used, yet your words are false and the saints’ are true. Truth has nothing to do with words; it has to do with experience. What arises from your experience is truth; what is borrowed, what is stale, is false. This is the touchstone.

So what you hear from the scriptures is false. Let me repeat—don’t misunderstand me to mean that what is written in the scriptures is false. If you merely repeat the scriptures, it becomes false. If what is written there becomes your own experience, it becomes true.

Thus Dariya says, the dust of the scriptures had gathered thick, the Master blew once and it flew away. A ray of truth arrived, and the darkness of lifetimes—the darkness of untruth—shattered. Falsehood is like darkness; truth is like light. Then a single ray is enough; you don’t have to bring the whole sun into the house. A small lamp is sufficient. Hence it is said, with one word.

In fact, perhaps not even a word was needed—this is only a way of speaking. The Master’s presence was enough. That touch of presence, that shock of presence, that impact of the Master’s being shattered the darkness. The dust of scriptures fell away.

The day the dust of the scriptures falls away is the very day the scripture within you becomes available. From that day you are no longer stale. Now you know for yourself. These things are no longer matters of belief; they are your experience, your realization, your direct seeing. You yourself are the witness. You will no longer say, “It is true because the Gita says so.” You will say, “It is true because I say so.” You will not say, “It is true because it is written in the Quran.” You will say, “The Quran is true because it has come into my experience.” Earlier you would say, “My belief is right because it is written in the Quran.” The Quran was first; you were second. Now you are first; the Quran is second.

The day scripture becomes number two, the day you become number one—the day you can place your hand on your chest and say, “This is my experience; I too have known what is written in the scriptures”—from that day there is no need to cling to the scripture. What need remains? One who has the wealth of his own realization can forget the scriptures.

And the wonder is: only the one who can forget the scriptures is the greatest interpreter of scripture. This is the paradox. The one who is free of the dust of scriptures is the true knower of scripture. He alone has known, he alone has recognized. Whatever he says then becomes scripture. Dariya’s word became scripture. The Master dusted Dariya, and Dariya’s speech became scripture. Understand only this: those who wrote the scriptures wrote having truly known; but when you take what is written and merely believe it, in your hands it all becomes false.

I loved; I knew love; I spoke to you of love. You have never loved, never known love. You heard the talk, grabbed it, and began to repeat. For you it is all false—hollow, shallow. You are not its witness. Not seen with your eyes, only heard with your ears. What is only ear-heard is false; let it be your eye-seen.

That is why we value the seer, not the hearer. Why do we value the seer? Because it has been seen with the eyes; the divine has been seen before the eyes. If it has only been heard by the ears—someone else’s saying—it is a rumor. Who knows if it is right? Who knows if it is not? It is a matter of trust. And when you trust another, it can never be complete trust. Complete trust is only in one’s own experience, in one’s own realization. With another, some doubt—little or much—remains: who knows? The man may be good, trustworthy; he may never have stolen, never deceived, never been dishonest—so he must be saying what he believes. But who knows! It may be that he himself is under an illusion. He may not be lying, yet he could be deluded. He may himself have been deceived. That too happens, because mirages exist.

A man comes from the desert—of irreproachable character in every way—and says, “I saw an oasis in the distance.” His statement is not a lie—he is not a habitual liar. You can accept that he says what he saw. But the distant oasis may have been a mirage. Mirages do occur. Then, a man who has never lied could lie today—what stands in the way? A man who has always lied could speak truth today. Transformations can occur in a single instant. There is a saying: every saint has a past, and every sinner a future. If the man who has always lied could never tell the truth, there would be no hope, no possibility. A man who has sinned till now—a killer, a liar, a thief, a cheat—he too one day becomes like Valya the Bhil—Valmiki.

So who knows? The man who always lied may be speaking truth today. And who knows? Saints too can become corrupt; they can fall. We have the term yogabhrashta—fallen from yoga. Only one who is on heights can fall; how will one on the low ground fall? That is why we have no expression like “fallen from indulgence.” How would the indulger fall, and from where? He is already fallen—he is already at the lowest. Where is there to fall beyond that? People fall from heaven, not from hell. If they fall from hell, it is good fortune—because if you fall from hell, wherever you land will be upward; there is no further down left.

So the man who until yesterday was truthful, honest, proper—today he could be false. How will you rely on another?

And as for the one who wrote a scripture—who knows when he lived, who he was? Did a knower write it, or did someone collect others’ loans and leftovers and write? Not every book is written from experience. Out of a hundred, perhaps one is based on experience; ninety-nine are borrowed and stale.

So how will you trust? Therefore doubt remains. Only experience removes doubt—totally. And when experience dawns in you, when trust arises in yourself, when realization happens within you—then, for you, all scriptures—note well, all scriptures—become true. It is no longer that Hindu scriptures are right and Jain or Muslim scriptures are wrong. No. The day you have your own experience, you find that the one invoked by the name Allah is this very one; the one invoked by the name Ram is this very one. That day all the scriptures of the earth become true. Your one small experience becomes testimony for all the sages of the world. You become the proof. There is no other proof. For the divine there is no proof other than this—until you yourself become the proof.
Someone asked Ramakrishna to give some proof of God. Ramakrishna said, I am here. Look into my eyes. Take my hand. Dance with me. Sit in prayer near me; I am here. The man was a little ruffled. He said, That’s fine—you are here, I know that. I’m asking for proof of the Divine. What other proof could there be? Ramakrishna says, Peer into my eyes, take my hand, come with me, sit and rise by my side—dive in. I am the proof. But the man would not agree. He says, We have come asking for proof, not asking for you. What use are you in this?
This man is blind. Ramakrishna’s answer is the only answer; there cannot be another. You can be the proof; you cannot give the proof.

The day the dust of the scriptures fell away from Dariya, that day Dariya himself became scripture. That day his speech became the Vedas. That day the essence of the Upanishads entered his voice. That day the song of the Quran came into his words. He had been a Muslim; but from that day he was neither Muslim nor Hindu. From that day he was simply religious. A religious man is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. A religious man is simply religious. And the wealth of the whole world is his.

If you go into interpretations, you get lost. The matter is straightforward—don’t complicate it. Let the disciple be close to the master. To be close means: the disciple does not defend himself.

You are always defending yourself. Even when you go to a master you go only up to a certain limit—up to where you still feel out of danger. You even defend yourself against the master. You are very frightened. You are afraid the master might do something that goes against you. And truth is against you. Because you are false, the master will have to do something that goes against you. As you are, you have to be erased; as you are, you have to be killed; only then can a new birth happen.

So being close has just one meaning: the disciple lays down his weapons. He says, “Now I am disarmed. I drop my swords and armor, my shield and bow and arrows. I will not fight you now. If you want to kill me, kill me; if you want to save me, save me. Do whatever you will. Let your will be done.”

To be close means: today I renounce my will. That is the meaning of sannyas, that is the meaning of being a disciple, that is the meaning of initiation—that from today I leave my will. I have lived by my will and seen the result: I went astray, I suffered, I reached nowhere. I tried all arrangements of my will, and everywhere failure was all I found; whatever I did on my own went wrong.

You have come after a long journey with the ego. Look closely at the journey of your ego. Where have you reached? If you are truly reaching somewhere, then there is no need of a master. If you feel that the journey is going perfectly well, that you are on the path, that fragrance in the heart is increasing, peace is growing, a shower of bliss is happening, clouds are gathering and more rain is coming—if such is your sense, then there is no need of a master, no need of initiation. You are on the right path. Go on, keep going. Then neither surrender is needed nor the closeness of anyone.

But if it does not seem so, and it feels that your hands are empty—and what you took to be wealth turned out, in the end, to be mere shards; what you thought was gold turned out to be only shining brass; the diamonds and jewels you collected were mere pieces of glass—if everywhere failure meets you, and defeat meets you, and life seems to be becoming more and more sorrowful, and you are traveling towards hell, then you need to take someone’s hand, fall at someone’s feet and say, “Now I will no longer walk by my will; from now on your will is my will.”

To be close means: you have dropped your resolve. Renunciation of resolve is closeness. If somewhere within you are still preserving your own resolve—if even your initiation and your sannyas are your decision—you will miss; you will remain far. You said, “It is my decision that I take sannyas.” You may take sannyas and still miss—because it is your decision? Then your old will is still intact. The old stiffness is still intact. The rope is burnt, the kinks remain. Even at the final stage you are trying to preserve your stiffness. You say, “I have taken sannyas. I have taken initiation.” Still the “I” is intact, still it is speaking loudly—then you have missed. Even if you sit clinging to the master’s feet, you are thousands of miles away.

And if you did not come with the feeling “I took,” but with the realization “I have been defeated—when defeated, take the Lord’s name; I am defeated. What can I ‘take’ now? In my defeat, I fall at these feet”—then your experience will be very different. Your experience will be: the master gave initiation. It is not that you took; the master bestowed—in grace. And from that very moment you begin to be close. Then even if you live a thousand miles away from the master, it makes no difference; you are close.

Closeness is not physical. Closeness is not bodily. Closeness is spiritual. And spiritual closeness happens only when your ego, your resolve, your old stiffness fall away. You collapse like a heap at the master’s feet.

“What does it mean that the disciple be close to the master and open his heart?”

To open the heart means: do not hide anything. You have hidden from everyone. You have hidden even from your lover. You kept your secrets intact. You have not told your wife everything. Nor your husband. You have hidden some things. You hide every day. You have never opened your heart anywhere completely. You could not. I do not blame you, because those before whom you would open your heart would turn against you.

So your fear is natural. If you came home and told your wife that today on the road seeing a beautiful woman pass by, a desire arose—“Ah, if only I could marry her”—you would only raise trouble. The chances are very slim that your wife would understand. She will beat her head, thrash about, cry, create a scene, gather the neighbors—and she will never forgive you. And from that day tighter restrictions and arrangements will begin. She won’t let you go anywhere alone. If you so much as lift your eyes toward a woman, she will fill you with guilt.

So you cannot say it. You have to push it aside, hide it. It cannot be revealed. The heart cannot be opened, because people around you want you to live in a particular mold. They make choices for you: be like this and we accept you; be like that and you will be rejected. If you reveal your weaknesses you will be condemned. If you open your heart and lay it as it is—raw, without paint and polish, without touch-up, just as it is: raw; beautiful if beautiful, ugly if ugly, uncut, unfinished—if you place it as it is, no one will give you respect. Respect goes to your hypocrisy. The bigger the hypocrite, the more honored he becomes.

So you have to show—even if you are not a mahatma—you have to show that you are. To your last breath you try to show something you are not, and to hide what you are.

If you keep this same process going before the master, then you have not found the master at all. And if you have to fear the master the same way you fear your wife or husband; father or mother; friend or customer; boss or servant—if you have to fear the master in that way, then that “master” too is worldly. Understand this: only he is not worldly before whom you can lay everything bare and not the slightest trace of condemnation arises in his eyes. If condemnation arises in his eyes, he is not a master.

That is why, of your hundred “masters,” ninety-nine are so-called, worldly. They frighten you—no different from those who frighten you elsewhere. In fact, before your so-called holy men you become even more frightened than anywhere else. You can’t even tell your “mahatma” that you drink tea—because tea is sin. You can’t even say you have a habit of smoking—smoking is the sure path to hell. You can’t open even small, trivial things—because the man sitting there will immediately grab your neck: “You do such things? Renounce them this instant!” And you will be discredited forever in his eyes. Hypocrisy is what is honored. As long as someone has expectations that you must be like this, how will you open your heart? That is why the ninety-nine “masters” walking the world are not masters.

The very definition of a master—of a true master—is this: in his presence you can open everything. He gives you such ease, such a space that without praise or blame, without fear, you can open your heart and say, “This is how I am.” Because until the master knows you exactly as you are, the work cannot even begin.

Hiding from a master is like going to a doctor and hiding your disease. You are dying, yet you hide your illness from the doctor. Then why did you go? You went for treatment, for diagnosis—so the doctor catches what the disease is and prescribes the cure.

You don’t hide your illness from a doctor, do you? You don’t fear that if you tell the doctor, “I have a cough, and sometimes there is blood,” the doctor will instantly turn against you and say, “Sinner!” Or get you thrown out of your job, or let everyone know. Everything is going smoothly—you’re standing for election—if voters find out you cough and spit blood, who will vote for you?

Politicians don’t allow news of their illnesses to be printed. They get very angry with newspapers if they print any news of their ailments. Till the last breath the politician shows the world that he is perfectly healthy. Why? Otherwise who will vote? No one votes for corpses. To his dying breath the leader keeps saying, “Nothing is wrong with me; I am fine in every way.” He has to show this. So the leader even hides from his doctor.

Only much later did it become known that Stalin was very ill. Only after Hitler’s defeat did it come out that Hitler suffered from many diseases. But no one knew it while Hitler was in power. He was plagued by many illnesses—epilepsy as well, and other dangerous conditions. If people had known, he could not have remained in power for a day. All this had to be concealed. You have to present a face to the public.

Stalin’s photos could not be printed without official permission because his face was scarred with smallpox marks. Only in one photo were they accidentally caught; otherwise in no picture could they be seen—smallpox scars had to be hidden. A leader should be flawless from head to toe. Smallpox scars do not suit a leader. So the pictures were never printed as they were. All pictures were retouched—only then were they printed. Mao’s hands and feet trembled, but that never reached the papers. When he spoke he couldn’t speak properly, his tongue faltered; he had aged. But this did not become public until after Mao died.

Perhaps you are standing for election, perhaps you have applied for a job—if it becomes known... Perhaps you are proposing marriage to a woman and it is known that you cough and blood sometimes comes—then in fear you may not tell the doctor; but then how will you be cured? Why did you go at all? With a doctor you bare everything. It is a part of a doctor’s ethics that he never divulges a patient’s illness—this is the medical code. So you tell the doctor, and you want to be free of the disease.

When you come to a master you come with even greater illnesses. Not tuberculosis, not cancer—these are diseases of lifetimes, spiritual diseases. Will you hide them? Will you hide from the master? Then you are saving yourself from the very medicine. The master is the physician; he cannot be hidden from. Before him you have to open everything—the raw account of sins and virtues. All the good and bad has to be opened. Within, you are an upheaval where all kinds of sins and all kinds of evils lie suppressed. You must drop your inhibitions. That is why I say: the heart has to be opened before the master.

Opening the heart means: before the master, do not try to protect any kind of image of yourself. Say, “As I am, so I am—good or bad.” And the true master is exactly he who, even if you open all the pus of your life’s wounds before him, does not for a moment doubt your Buddhahood, does not for a moment doubt your divine nature. All these diseases are there; even so, you are God. However many sins you may have committed, your divine nature is not destroyed. However long you may have wandered in darkness, your nature is consciousness. The true master is one who, having seen his own conscious nature, also sees yours. He will tell you, “All right, this junkyard is there, but it is not you. Don’t worry.” But that state—where he can make you alert that “This is not you”—will happen only when you open your heart completely.

“And why is it so difficult, and why is there fear?” It is difficult because every time you opened your heart somewhere, you suffered a loss. Experience has made it difficult. Whenever you spoke the truth you suffered. People say, “Truth alone triumphs.” Your experience is the opposite—wherever you spoke truth, you lost. Sometimes falsehood has won; truth has never appeared to win. Where you were honest, there you lost; where you were dishonest, sometimes you gained. Dishonesty has never harmed you; being caught has harmed you. So your entire life-experience is this: dishonesty does not harm; getting caught harms. Only don’t get caught—and then be as dishonest as you like: profit and more profit.

Truth neither loses nor wins—this is your experience: if you can prove a lie as if it were truth, you win. Just don’t get caught. How then to open the heart? If you open your heart you get yourself caught with your own hands; you go and surrender with your own hands. That is why your whole life-experience says: don’t say what the truth is. Deny it as far as possible. And whenever you did tell someone the truth, that very one harmed you. If you told a friend a truth, the friend became an enemy.

Freud has said: if all friends told each other the truth about one another, not even three friendships would remain in the world. What you truly think about your friend—if you say it, friendship cannot survive. People are living in lies; people are steeped in lies.

On the road someone meets you—you exchange deep greetings, embrace, and say, “What a blessing, what good fortune—darshan at such an auspicious hour. After so long, I have seen you.” And inside you are thinking, “What an evil face to run into! Who knows how the day will go now!” Inside, you are thinking, “Where did this fellow appear from? I was out to do something auspicious and this gentleman met me on the way.” But to his face you say, “How kind of you!”

Guests come home. You say, “Please come. We are waiting with eyes as carpets.” And inside you are crying, “So, they’ve come again! Who knows when they will leave? Who knows how long they will press and pester us!” Outwardly you say, “The guest is God.” Inside you know that nothing is more devilish than a guest.

You live on two levels. Living on two levels has suited you so well, has become so thick a habit—that is why the difficulty. So when you come to the master, how can the old habits drop at once? You begin to show one thing and say another.

I experience this every day. People come to ask a question and they ask something else. I can see their real question is different. I have to coax them, gently and carefully, to the real question. But even when they ask, they falsify it. Why? Even the question must be “high”; it makes an impression. Their problem may be sex, but they ask about Rama. The question is about lust, and they will raise the topic of Rama; they will ask, “How to find God?” Looking at their energy, their aura, I do not see any longing for God anywhere. They ask, “How to find God?” I have to entice them, explain, “Come, come to the real.” Slowly, slowly, with great difficulty they come to the real—and even that they come to with great restlessness. And only the real can be transformed; nothing can be done with the fake.

If you ask a false question, what will become of my answer? What will you do with it? The medicine I prescribe—how will it help? It isn’t your disease. You have hidden your illness and spoken of someone else’s.

A gentleman came and said, “I have a friend—he is very lustful. His mind is full of sex. Please suggest some remedy for him.” I said, “Send the friend himself, and let him tell me that ‘I have a friend.’ Why all this trouble?” He was a courageous man; he started and looked around—but then he said, “You caught me. This is my trouble. But I thought to ask straight out ‘I am very lustful’—no, I thought better to ask in a friend’s name. Whatever you say, I will do.”

But a friend’s question is a friend’s question. And even if the illness appears similar, two people may need two different medicines. Do not think if your illness seems like your friend’s, the same medicine will work for both. Your friend has journeyed in his way through countless births; the whole structure of his personality is different; yours is different. The same medicine will not work. A remedy prescribed for the friend—if you take it, you may get into worse trouble. The disease will remain, and the medicine may bring new diseases. Many times your medicines have made you more ill.

So I say: open the heart. The difficulty is that whenever you opened your heart, you got hurt. As they say: Once burnt by milk, you blow even on buttermilk. That is your situation. You have been burnt so often. To anyone you said the truth—there was trouble. To anyone you said the truth—there was trouble. This whole world is a world of lies. Here, things don’t move if you speak the truth. Here, lies are the provisions for the journey, the packed lunch. Everything runs on that. Here we are bound to each other by lies.

Every day you must tell your wife, “I love you very much. I cannot live a moment without you. If you are not there, what will become of me? I cannot live a day.” And you know well that if the wife were not there, however much you might weep outwardly, inwardly you would be relieved: “Good, the trouble is over, the nuisance is gone. Now I am free again. Now I can look for another woman.”

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was dying. He sat by her cot—as sadly as husbands are supposed to sit. Inside, he is counting his blessings, that is different; that is not to be told to anyone. Wives are clever too: on the point of death they raise such questions. She opened her eyes and said, “Mulla, I want to ask one thing. If I die, what will you do?” Mulla said, “What will I do? I will die. I cannot live a moment. Without you I cannot even think.” She said, “Leave it! Don’t say such things to me. Tell me this—of course you will marry again.” “Never,” Mulla said, “never. I swear I will never. I swear by you.” She said, “Don’t swear by me; I am dying anyway. I have only one prayer—I know, no sooner am I dead and my funeral is on its way than you will be making arrangements to marry. Only one prayer: if you bring a wife, see that she does not wear my clothes and my jewelry. It will give my soul great pain.” Mulla said, “Don’t worry about that at all—Gulabo won’t fit in your clothes anyway; it’s already going on with Gulabo. Don’t worry about that.”

A smart man makes arrangements in advance. Not that the wife will die and then he will arrange. The wife is dying anyway...

Ours is a world where lies are our arrangement. Will you build the same kind of relationship with the master? Then the master cannot take you beyond this world. The master means: one who takes you out of this web of lies. So with him you have to drop all your old experiences. And only the one before whom you can drop them without hesitation is your master. Otherwise he is not your master. Then keep seeking; even now, seek—a time will come when you will surely find someone before whom you can drop everything without embarrassment. Somewhere you will find a person in whose eyes there is no condemnation of you. And to whom, even telling the truth, you will not lose the game—you will win it only by telling the truth.

That is the meaning of the true master. In a true master there is no condemnation. For whatever you have done, there is boundless compassion. Even for your sins there is compassion—remember this. He understands your sins as human weaknesses, because he himself has passed through the same weaknesses, fallen into the same pits, walked the same thorny paths, suffered the same thorns. He knows, he knows well. A true master is one who until yesterday was just like you. He has not forgotten it. Now he understands it even better.

Understand one thing—very psychological: if you go to some master and say, “I am very prone to anger,” and he begins to say, “Anger is sin; you will rot in hell,” and starts frightening and threatening you; or you say, “I am lustful,” and he flares up, “Lustful? Why have you come here then? Observe celibacy or you’ll rot in hell—worms will eat you, you’ll be boiled in cauldrons,” and flies into a rage—then one thing is certain: he has not yet become free of lust or anger.

Understand this: you become angry exactly about that which still harasses you. Otherwise what is anger? There is a quiet, cool understanding. What is there to be angry about?

Hasan, a fakir, stayed with Saint Rabia. Both were sitting when a man came and placed gold coins at Hasan’s feet. Hasan got furious: “Why have you brought this—gold—here? Gold is dust, dirt. Remove it!” Rabia laughed. Hasan asked, “Why do you laugh?” Rabia said, “Hasan, your attachment to gold has not yet gone.” Hasan said, “It has gone—that’s why I shouted, ‘Take it away!’” Rabia said, “If it had gone, why shout? If gold is dust, dust already lies all around you; you aren’t shouting. This man brought a little more dust—what is there to shout about? Why become so inflamed, so excited? This excitement shows there is still fear inside. It shows you have suppressed your greed, not dissolved it. And look at this man: he is poor—he has nothing but gold. He is very poor. Don’t scold such a poor man. He is so poor, and he wants to offer something—he has nothing but gold.”

It happened when I was in Jaipur: there was an extraordinary man, Sohanlal Dugad—a gambler, a bookie, one of the biggest in India. But he was a man of great courage—as gamblers must be. He came with a sack full of currency notes. He had heard me for the first time; the next day he came and emptied the whole sack at my feet. I said to him, “Keep it safe. When I need it, I will inform you. I don’t need it now. Perhaps some day there may be a need. Keep this as a trust on my behalf.”

He began to weep. I had not thought a man would weep. He said, “No, I am a gambler. Today I have, tomorrow I may not. Don’t give me this trouble. Your trouble is yours; don’t give it to me. I am a gambling man—sometimes I have lakhs, sometimes crores, and sometimes I have not a penny. I cannot keep it. Give it to someone else.” I said, “Don’t worry. If you don’t have it then, I won’t file a case. I am a gambler too. If it’s gone, it’s gone. You keep it.”

He wept all the more. He said, “No, I cannot take it back. I am a very poor man—because I have nothing except money. And I want to give something—but what can I give? I have nothing else. I don’t know love, I know nothing of surrender, I have never seen the soul. These are things I have only heard of. But I have nothing. I have nothing but money. I am a very poor man.

“Do you hear my definition of a poor man? That I have nothing but money. I am very poor. I am very poor. I want to give something. If you do not accept money, my heart will be very hurt. I will feel so wretched that I could not give anything.”

Listen to his definition of poverty: “I have nothing except money; I am very poor.” “I am very poor. I want to give something.” If you do not accept the money, I will feel I could not give.

Rabia said to Hasan, “Look at that poor man—see with what feeling he brought it.” And Hasan said, “Rabia, you have warned me well. I understand. I had only repressed this attachment to gold; it has not been dissolved.”

A true master is one who has truly awakened. He will not condemn what you have done, nor will he send you to hell or frighten you. Because the true master looks at you—not at your actions. Actions have no ultimate value; actions are maya. What you have done has no ultimate value; what you are is valuable. And what you are is God himself. One who has seen the God within himself, sees the God hidden in all. Then, however much you hide God in a thief, the true master still sees him; in a sinner—he still sees; in a murderer—he still sees. You cannot hide your God from the true master.

So when you lay open all your sins—whatever is good or bad, just as it is—before the true master, right then, for the first time, you are released from your karma. This is the method for freedom from karma. As long as you suppress, you remain bound; as long as you hide, you remain stuck. There must be some place where you can open everything. As you open it you will see one thing: “I am separate—the mere witness. I am the seer only.” Neither actions nor thoughts have any ultimate value. These are dream-things. Some dreams we see with eyes closed, some we see with eyes open. Still, I know your difficulty: whenever you dared, you got into trouble.

Don’t come from near the clouds,
do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.
It is a dark night; I am lost,
entangled from head to toe,
the line upon my brow has gone blind—
do not make me quiver like anklets.
Don’t come from near the clouds,
do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.

Once again I am deluded,
to be deceived has become the easy order of things;
all the labor of life has turned out vain—
do not come from the village of hope;
do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.

So often you have looked into eyes and always found sorrow. You become so afraid you even say to God:

Do not come from the village of hope;
do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.
Don’t come from near the clouds,
do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.
It is a dark night; I am lost,
entangled from head to toe,
the line upon my brow has gone blind—
do not make me quiver like anklets.
Do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.

Every time you looked into someone’s eyes and opened your truth, you were hurt; you were wounded; thorns pricked; wounds were made. They grew and never healed; they are all still fresh. So you are afraid—even of God—that he might again entangle you in some new love; that once again, by looking into someone’s eyes, he might land you in some new trouble.

Do not come from the village of hope;
do not meet my eyes with your eyes and smile.
Once again I am deluded,
to be deceived has become the easy order of things;
all the labor of life has turned out vain...

Every time you looked into someone’s eyes there was delusion, there was deceit. So you don’t look into the master’s eyes either. You look here and there. You have been betrayed so often by love that you do not enter totally even into the master’s love. There too you keep protections; you keep arrangements so that if needed, you can defend yourself. There too you do not leave yourself unguarded. There too surrender does not become total.

I understand your difficulty. Your ancient, age-old experiences have prepared you for this. But if you remain entangled in the same way, you will miss. Be courageous at least once. What will happen at most? One more deception—no more than that! You have been robbed so much—what is there left to lose? This man may rob you a little more—what else will happen? You have been looted so much, that if you are looted a little more, what difference will it make? Therefore, be courageous.

If ever you are entering someone’s love, if ever someone’s call reaches you, if ever you glimpse a ray of the divine around someone, do not miss the opportunity. What is there to lose? One more illusion—so be it! Among millions of illusions, one more—what obstacle will that create? So many thorns have pierced you; one more thorn will pierce. So many people have deceived you; one more person will deceive you.

This is what I call courage. Courage means: try once more. Courage means: do not take past experience as the whole truth. It is possible that something new may happen—trust in that possibility is faith. To believe that only what has happened so far will keep happening forever—that is to sink into melancholy, into despair. True, you have traveled many paths and none took you anywhere. There is nothing to be frightened about in that.

I have heard: the famous American scientist Edison was doing an experiment. He failed seven hundred times. Every day from morning to evening the experiment continued—and every day failure. The experiment did not seem likely to succeed. Seven hundred times is enough; three years passed; the fourth year began. His assistants were exhausted. One day they gathered and said, “Enough. We have other things to do, or will we do this our whole lives? And this shows no sign of happening. We are frightened by you: every morning you come full of enthusiasm again and start afresh. You never tire. Are we to do this all our lives?”

Edison said, “Why stop now? We have already seen seven hundred ways that are wrong; now the right way must be close. How many wrong ways can there be? Suppose there are a thousand in all—we’ve checked seven hundred; only three hundred remain. Victory is coming nearer every day, you fools—who told you we’re losing? Victory is coming nearer every day. Every failure is one step closer to success. And it is certainly so: there will be only one right way. The wrong can be nine hundred and ninety-nine. The one right way will be one. To reach that one, passing through the nine hundred and ninety-nine is unavoidable.”

This is the mark of a brave person. His hope does not break. His trust does not get lost. He says, “So many deceptions I have suffered, so many people I have tested, so many loves proved false, so many relationships proved hollow—now the right relationship must be close. How long will distance remain? The right moment must be arriving.” So have more courage, more daring, more zest, more enthusiasm.

Remember, in this world everything else is against you. So if you open your truth with them, you will get into trouble. They will exploit you. In this world everyone is your competitor, your rival. With them, you will have to say something else.

I have heard: two brokers—Bombay stock-market brokers—met on a train. The first asked the second, “Where are you going?” The second said, “I am going to Poona.” The first said, “Don’t pretend. Don’t lie to me. I know for certain that you are going to Poona—don’t lie to me.” The second was astonished, “But I just told you I’m going to Poona!” The first replied, “Don’t lie to me. I have checked with your office that you are going to Poona.”

Do you get it? He is saying: brokers lie as a habit. “I’m going to Poona” means you must be going somewhere else. If you say Poona, it’s certain you are going elsewhere—Igatpuri or Kalyan or Ulhasnagar—but not Poona. So the other says, “Don’t lie to me that you are going to Poona—you are going to Poona!”

Such is the world. Here it goes like this. There is fierce competition here.

Mulla Nasruddin was telling a friend his hunting adventures. The friend asked, “Big man, suppose you were in the jungle unarmed and a tiger began to chase you—what would you do?” Mulla answered, “If there were a river nearby, I’d jump in.” The friend said, “What if the tiger also jumped into the river?” Mulla said, “I’d cross to the other side.” The friend said, “What if the tiger also crossed?” Mulla said, “I’d climb a tree.” The friend continued, “What if the tiger also climbed the tree?” This time Mulla got irritated and said, “First tell me—are you on my side or the tiger’s?”

That is the problem. In this world no one is on your side. So to speak the truth is not without danger.

But the very meaning of a master is: this person is on your side. What sort of competition can he have with you? What kind of opposition? How can he harm you? He has no interest in what you have. Your ambitions are not his ambitions. If you are after wealth, he is after meditation. If you are after position, he is after God.

And here is the joy: if two people are after wealth, they will become enemies—wealth is limited. But even if not two but two crore people are after meditation, there is no reason for enmity—meditation is unlimited. If I attain meditation, it does not mean there is less left for you. If two people are after a post, only one can get it—not both. But if someone is after God, there is no competition with anyone.

If I attain God, I am not your enemy. It does not mean that now less God is left for you—“If you try now, you’ll get a smaller share because someone else already took some.” The wonder is that if one person attains God, your chances increase, not decrease. And if someone attains a post, your chances vanish. Now either Morarji will sit or Indira will sit—only one can sit. The other will be either in jail or in a condition worse than jail. Where there is the struggle for position, there is competition; there is enmity; where is friendship there?

So politicians cannot be friends. Even those who appear to be friends are not. Even those in the same party are not friends. How can they be? Friendship there is all show, outward, a deception. Inside, enmity is going on—inside, all arrangements to cut each other down are under way.

In politics there is no friendship; in religion there is no enmity. How can there be? If I have attained something, your possibility of attaining has not decreased—it has increased. If one person can attain, you can too—this trust can arise in you. If someone just like you—flesh and bone—can attain, why not you? Your courage will be awakened. You will regain your lost enthusiasm. Self-confidence will be born.

A true master has found something in a realm where competition simply does not exist. He has found meditation, samadhi, God, dharma. Either you do not even desire these, or even if you do, there is no competition in them. Before a true master you can open all your cards. You don’t need to hide your trump card either. It is best that you open all your cards—then the true master can lead you exactly and rightly on the path. He can take your hand. In opening all your cards you have placed your hand in the master’s hand. Before that you won’t place it. Before that your fist is clenched. You are hiding something. You want to save something. You will not come too close; you will stay a little distant; you will keep a wall, a screen, a veil—lest everything be exposed. Expose everything, so nothing remains to be saved. When there is nothing to save, no secret remains, then why hide? Why keep veils? When all veils drop, that is where the revolution happens.

Beautiful words. But why make them into a question? They already contain the answer. They are direct and simple; they don’t even need commentary. What could be simpler than this?

“Ram Ram karat kahi?” Why do you keep saying “Ram Ram”? Ram is not something to be said; Ram is to be cherished in the heart. Whom are you saying it to? Whom are you calling? Whom are you shouting at? Ram is not far away!

Kabir says: Has God gone deaf? Has your God become so deaf that you have to climb a high minaret and shout? What need is there to keep repeating the word “Ram”? Grasp the feeling. Hold the feeling in your heart—like a pregnant woman holds her child in her womb, so cradle the feeling of Ram within.

“Ram Ram karat kahi, Ram aise milat nahin.”
If merely speaking, repeating “Ram Ram,” or wrapping yourself in the blanket of the divine name were enough to find Ram, it would become too cheap. Then even parrots would get him.

“Ram sada kahat jaai...”
A beautiful saying: the moment you say “Ram,” you miss Ram—he slips from your hands. Say it, and you miss it. This is not a matter of words; it is to be held in the wordless. It is to be caught in emptiness, in silence. The moment a word arises, you are far from Ram. The moment the word appears, mind appears. Where there is mind, Ram is far. Where mind is not, there Ram abides. Ram is not a mere name; the name is only a symbol. It is a matter of feeling.

That’s why it is said Valmiki found Ram even by chanting “mara-mara.” It is a matter of feeling. He was a simple, unlettered man; the master had told him to chant “Ram Ram,” but he forgot. Simple people sometimes arrive; hardly ever do scholars arrive. The pandit pronounces perfectly, marshals grammar and language flawlessly—but this is not about correct pronunciation or language. It is about feeling.

He forgot. Repeating “Ram-Ram-Ram-Ram” quickly, it turned into “mara-mara,” and he went on repeating that. Repeating it, he arrived. When the master returned, he saw that the boy Valya had become Valmiki—seated in incomparable peace, bliss pouring, nectar showering. The master asked, “Found him? Did you find him by chanting ‘Ram Ram’?” Then Valya remembered and said, “Oh, I made a great mistake—you had said ‘Ram Ram’. I kept chanting ‘mara-mara’. But I found him.”

So it is not a question of chanting “Ram,” nor is there anything to be taken or given by the word “Ram.”

Pushpa is sitting here. She works with naad, with sound. A small community of sannyasins sits with her and dives into naad. Pushpa has come from Holland; she doesn’t know Sanskrit. So some mistakes in Sanskrit are bound to happen.

Now, even people who know Sanskrit come here. They shouldn’t, but they do. Some Sanskrit-knower must have raised objections, explaining to Pushpa that the mantra must be pronounced exactly, the notes right, the grammar correct. Poor Pushpa got caught in it.

Whenever she used to come with her group earlier, grace would descend. They would dive very deep. This time, when she came to me and her group intoned the naad, the pronunciation was correct—but everything else was lost. The grammar was perfect, but there was neither feeling, nor juice, nor plunge. Another fear had taken hold: “What if I make some mistake in the language?” The secondary was caught, the essential was lost.

I called her and asked, “You’ve surely fallen into the trap of some Sanskrit-knower.” She said, “Yes. Did I make some mistake?” I said, “Everything has gone wrong—not just a mistake.” It happened just as with Valya chanting “mara-mara.” It was sheer grace that no pandit came at that time; otherwise Valmiki would still be wandering. A pandit would have corrected him: “What are you doing—‘mara-mara’? Say ‘Ram Ram’. And remember—don’t make such mistakes.” Then fear would have arisen. And where there is fear, where is love? Where fear comes, one shrinks. Then, for the whole time, he would be watching, “Is ‘mara’ slipping in?” And of course it wouldn’t anymore—and he would miss. Then absorption wouldn’t happen; total immersion would not arise.

So I told her: Forget all language and grammar. I am not sitting here to teach language and grammar. The real is at stake; don’t turn it into the fake. Forget it all. Any word will do. Even if you repeat your own name, it will do. The question is not of words.

Hence it is said: “Ram sada kahat jaai.” Say it—and you miss; say it—and it goes.

“...Ram sada bahat jaai.”
And Ram is a flow. The moment you try to grasp, you miss. You clench your fist—and he is gone. Flow with Ram. He is a current, a living current. He is not a dead thing you can tie in a knot and keep safe in a bundle. He is not a jewel; he is a river, a flowing river, a stream in motion.

“...Ram sada bahat jaai.”
“Kahat pakdo Ram nahin...”
If you grab him by saying, you miss. Ram is flowing; flow with him. Flow with the current. That is the meaning of surrender.

“Chalat pakdo Ram nahin, Ram sada virajat maahi...”
And Ram is seated within you. Whom are you calling? And who is calling? The one who is calling is Ram himself. Now you are having Ram say “Ram Ram.” Why trouble him? What is the point of having Ram say “Ram Ram”? Dive into the one within who is calling.

“Sab dishat Ram sahi.”
When Ram becomes visible within, you will find him in all directions.

They were serving with so much love that it was not appropriate to raise the matter of the bitter juice. And what was his fault? Some bitter fruits must have come along. So much love had been poured into it that the bitterness was no longer bitterness. The tongue knew the juice was bitter, but I was seeing something else that was flowing with it. That was so abundant it covered the bitterness. Sometimes, if someone offers even a sweet juice halfheartedly, it turns bitter. And sometimes, if someone offers even a bitter juice with their whole heart, it becomes sweet. There is another sweetness—the sweetness of love.

First of all, why don’t you become “with a master” while I am here? Do you intend to remain orphans? I am ready to give you shelter, and you are saying that when I am gone you will become orphans. If once you come under shelter, you are sheltered; you don’t become orphans again. Only those will be orphans after I am gone who remained orphans even while I was here. Keep this well in mind.

If you are related to me, you are related to the Ultimate. He alone is the Master; without him you will remain orphans. And if you miss me, then even if someone comes a hundred years later, you will miss him too. In a hundred years your habit of missing will only grow stronger. You will have practiced missing for a century! You are worrying about a hundred years from now. I am here now, the door is open now. You ask, “When this door closes, will another open after a hundred years?” The door is open now. Do you want to enter only after a hundred years? Do you want to linger in the world for another hundred years? Are you not tired yet? Not bored yet?

Do not postpone to tomorrow what can happen now. And if you cannot do it now, how will you do it tomorrow? If it is to happen, it can happen this very moment.

Therefore I will make no prophecy about a hundred years hence. I do not want to turn you toward the future at all. The present is everything for me; this moment is everything. Tomorrow neither comes, nor will it ever come, nor has it ever come. Hope for tomorrow is the world. Entering into today is religion. Religion is a strictly cash matter. Don’t talk of credit.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went into a shop and saw the shopkeeper putting up a signboard. Mulla said, “What a lovely signboard.” The shopkeeper said, “Read what it says!” He was putting it up precisely for people like Mulla. The sign read: “Cash today, credit tomorrow.” Mulla sat quietly for a bit and then said, “All right, brother, I’ll be going.” The shopkeeper said, “How did you come, how are you going?” Mulla said, “Just as I came… I’m leaving after seeing this sign. I’ll come tomorrow. ‘Cash today, credit tomorrow’—so what I came for won’t do today. I’ll come tomorrow. I came to take on credit.”
But tomorrow will come as today again! When you return tomorrow, the sign will still read: “Cash today, credit tomorrow.”

Life has such a signboard: “Cash today, credit tomorrow.” You are waiting for tomorrow—does tomorrow ever come? Only today comes. Whatever comes is today. The door is open. If you have courage, enter. If you lack courage, why make calculations about a hundred years? Whatever happens then will happen. If you have courage, doors will be found even on that day. For the courageous, there is always a door. For the coward, there is never a door. Doors never end. Somewhere a door closes, somewhere a door opens. It never happens that there is no way to reach God. There is always a way. In one form or another, through one door or another, the Divine goes on calling you. All that is needed in you is courage.

Now you say that after a hundred years my absence will make you orphans. Is my presence making you sheltered? If my presence makes you sheltered, then there is no longer any possibility of becoming orphans. The matter is finished. Then you can never be orphans. This bond is not for a day or two; this bond is eternal. What you need, I am ready to give. You be ready to receive. Open your heart.

There is a folk tale in Maithili. The name Gonu Jha is well known in Bihar—he must have been a man like Mulla Nasruddin. Gonu Jha bought a beautiful calf at a fair and was returning to his village. As he was entering the village boundary, a cowherd asked, “Panditji, the calf is very beautiful—how much did you pay?” “Seventy-five rupees,” Gonu Jha replied enthusiastically, and went on. As he reached the village proper, a schoolboy on his way to class asked, “Baba, the calf is very beautiful—how much did you pay?” “Seventy-five rupees!” Gonu Jha snapped. Ahead was the village well, where a water-carrier woman was drawing water. She too began, “Panditji, Maharaj, the calf is so beautiful…”—and before she could finish, Gonu Jha left the calf there and leapt straight into the well.

At her outcry, the entire village gathered in no time. They threw down a rope and somehow pulled Gonu Jha out. The moment he was out, Gonu Jha shouted loudly, “Seventy-five rupees!”

“Gonu, are you in your senses?” an elderly man asked.
“Perfectly in my senses.”
“Then what nonsense are you shouting? What has ‘seventy-five rupees’ to do with jumping into the well? And why did you jump in?”
“So that I could answer the entire village’s question in one go and be done with it. Otherwise I’d have to keep answering each person separately, and the whole village would keep asking, ‘Baba, the calf is very beautiful…’ ‘Seventy-five rupees, seventy-five rupees!’ So Gonu Jha did the right thing—he jumped into the well. The whole village gathered by itself, and in a single shout of ‘seventy-five rupees’ he got free.”
The question you have asked could also be in others’ minds. It is not anyone’s alone. I see it in many eyes. There is no need to answer separately. I will say it collectively: seventy-five rupees!
The door is open. Today it is cash, and tomorrow it will become credit. Accept the cash. Have courage. Take the challenge. Only if you lose yourself will you cease to be an orphan.
No one becomes sheltered without self-effacement, because when the ego dissolves, the Divine enters.
That’s all for today.