Kano Suni So Juth Sab #6

Prayer has two parts: one is prayer, the other is waiting. And the second part is even more important than the first. Many people can pray; only a few can wait. And only those who can wait find their prayer fulfilled. Waiting means: I have prayed, but I do not crave for my prayer to be granted this very moment. There is hope that it will be fulfilled, but no demand. There is readiness, patience, that even if I have to wait for eternity, I will. If not today, not tomorrow, not the day after; if not in this life, not in the next—let as much time pass as it must; I will not lose patience.

With such infinite patience, one’s prayer can be fulfilled this very instant. But the prayer of the impatient is never fulfilled, because patience is the very life of prayer. If you pray and do not keep patience, then it is no longer prayer—it becomes a demand. You have missed. In demand there is desire, impatience, haste, the insistence that it must happen now. Demand is childish. Like little children who cry, “Now, right now”—a toy in the middle of the night. Demand lacks maturity; it carries stubbornness, willfulness, obstinacy. In prayer there is no stubbornness, no demand, no obstinacy. Far from obstinacy, prayer does not even contain satyagraha, because satyagraha too is only a fine name for obstinacy.

Prayer has no insistence at all; prayer is only a request, only an invitation. You have sent your letter; now let the Beloved come when He will. Your letter merely says that whenever He comes, your door will be open. Whenever He comes, the doors of your heart will not be shut. Your heart-temple will be open. You will wait. And there is great joy in waiting, for in waiting there is deep peace. Impatience is suffering; it is tension, worry. Impatience is restlessness—“Will it happen or not?”—division and doubt. Patience itself means: It will happen. Certainly it will. However long the delay, even that delay is not an injustice. That too is the time required for my vessel to be made ready. The seed has been sown; it will sprout. Let the right season come, let time ripen; the seed will sprout and become a tree. After sowing the seed, keep watering and keep watch. In haste, everything goes awry.

This is the meaning of the couplet: Stay with Hari, brother; in the making, it gets made. Do your part—stay with Hari. Keep following God from your side. Keep sending the invitation tirelessly. Keep calling out from your side. Let your eyes shed tears of love, and let your feet, anklets tied, dance in love. Do everything from your side. Leave no shortfall on your side—not even a shred of neglect or mistake.

The very moment the season ripens and you are ready, the happening happens. If it isn’t happening yet, it has only one meaning. Do not complain. Do not say, “God is annoyed with me.” Do not say, “He is upset with me.” Do not say, “It is happening to others—why not to me?” Do not say, “Injustice is being done.” If God is not happening in you, it has only one meaning—only one: you are not yet ready.

So set yourself to preparation. If the Divine did not come to your door today, get to work on your preparation. Tomorrow, sweep and dust the house more; make it cleaner; light the lamp, burn the incense, place the flowers. Then wait again tomorrow. If He still does not come, understand only this: there is still a little fault, a little slip, somewhere. The moment every fault is gone, the event happens just as water turns to steam at a hundred degrees. If it hasn’t turned to steam at ninety-nine, it doesn’t mean God is angry. It means only this: water won’t become steam until it reaches a hundred degrees. Put a few more logs on the fire, add a little more fuel. Call out with a little more force—go a little more mad, ecstatic in your cry. Become a bit more of a lover gone wild. Hum the song a little more! He will be on His way.

Stay with Hari, brother; in the making, it gets made.
Bit by bit, in the happening, it happens. It is certain. Whoever moves toward Him arrives—sooner or later. It depends on the strength of your steps—how you walk. Only the direction must be right; then even slow walkers arrive, quick walkers arrive, swift runners arrive. The direction alone must be right.

And prayer is the right direction. If the direction is wrong, there is danger: walk slowly and you will still get lost; run fast and you will go even farther astray. If you are a great sprinter, you will overshoot by a great distance. Only the direction must be right. Prayer sets the direction right. Prayer means surrender. Prayer means: By my doing, nothing will happen—You do. You can make a mistake; He does not. This sets the direction right. As long as you are doing, mistakes are bound to happen. From you, what else can be expected? With this dark mind, how will you do what is right? With this extinguished lamp, how will you find the path? The likelihood is of going astray, not of arriving. Prayer means: Whatever I do goes wrong; wherever “I” appears, error begins. The very sense of “I, me, mine” is my greatest mistake.

Prayer means: I set down the “I.” I say, “You, Thou.”

Jalaluddin has a famous poem:
The lover knocked on the beloved’s door,
and from inside came the voice,
“Who are you?”
He said,
“I. Hey! You didn’t recognize me?
Didn’t you recognize my voice?
Didn’t you recognize my footsteps?”
But then inside there was silence; no answer came. Long did he beat his head upon the door, but no further question was asked. It was as if no one were at home. When he shouted and cried for long, only this much came from within: “Two cannot fit in this house. This is the house of love; two cannot be contained here.”

The lover understood. The arrow struck his heart. He went into the forests. Many moons came and went, many suns rose and set. Years upon years passed. He melted his “I,” dissolved it, smelted it away. The day his “I” had utterly melted—when not even a trace remained—on that day he looked within and found the Supreme Void enthroned there, where not even a note of “I” arose. He came and knocked on the door.

And the doors opened.
This little poem of Rumi holds the whole inner mood of the devotee.
If there is the note of “I” in your prayer, God’s doors will remain shut. Bang your head as much as you like; for the sake of the I, the door has never opened, nor will it ever. The I itself is the lock on that door. Your I is the lock on His door. And God cannot unlock your I. The lock you put on—only you can open it. If your I drops away, if the lock of your I falls, the door is already open. The door was never closed. The veil is only over your eyes; there is no veil over the Divine.

People think God is hiding somewhere. God is not hiding anywhere. You are standing with your eyes closed. This I of yours has become a black wall all around you. Prayer means: the I falls; the feeling dissolves that anything can happen by my doing. By my doing, whatever has happened has gone wrong. By my doing the world arose. By my doing the body was formed. By my doing the nets were spread. By my doing desire arose. By my doing the great entanglement of karma spread. Whatever happened by my doing was wrong. By my doing arose all anxiety and sorrow, pain and madness.

Prayer means: I am now weary of this I and of my doing. Now I say, “You do”—that is the essence of prayer. Prayer does not essentially mean that you cry “Allah-Allah” or chant “Ram-Ram.” Those are secondary. Even if you do not call, in silence too prayer can happen. But one fundamental thing is to set the I down. Then, even if you do not call, the call reaches. And while the I remains, you can call endlessly and the call still does not reach.

And when you are no more, what haste can there be? Whose haste? Who will be impatient? Who will say, “Let it happen quickly”? This too is the expectation of the I—that it should happen quickly. The I is afraid that time may run out, because the I is bound to time. The I is not eternal; it is momentary. Therefore the I is filled with the sense of time. Once the I is removed, what remains is eternal. Then there is no hurry. Whether it happens today, tomorrow, or the day after—it's all the same. In the endless, whenever it happens, it is all the same. Then that whole hustle of time, that panic that time is slipping away, that perhaps I might die and this happening may not occur...

Yesterday I was reading a poem:

You alone are the sign for the ones who stray,
You alone are the support for the sobbing,
You alone are ours—the sorrowing, the heart-scorched,
You alone are the Pole Star for the lost and the wandering.
Show yourself, if only a little, through these prison bars;
Come before I lose my senses.
Come, filled with fresh ecstasy,
Filled with love, with surging tide, with thirst.
The flowers in my cupped hands keep falling,
Waves of rapture come and go.
Show yourself, if only a little, through these prison bars;
Come before I lose my senses—come now.

The I is in a great hurry. The I fears that death is approaching. And the death of the I is certain. The very existence of the I is the miracle; the death of the I is completely natural. How you manage to hold the I together is the miracle; the I is tottering—about to fall, any moment. It can drop any time. It is always ready to break. One has to spend a whole life trying to prop it up; even so it cannot be held—one day it collapses. It is this alone that dies.

Since the I is bound to die, it is greatly panicked about time. The I has a strong sense of time: let it happen quickly, now, this very instant. What are you afraid of? Set the I aside a little and recognize your face. Set the I aside a little and see your form. You are eternal. Then, whenever you meet, even if in eternity, you have met now. Then delay never is. Therefore an essential limb of prayer is waiting—waiting filled with infinite patience.

Stay with Hari, O brother; in the becoming, it becomes.

There are only two paths to know truth, to awaken in truth: devotion and love. Then naturally the question arises: Ashtavakra says there is no path. Bodhidharma also says there is no path. Krishnamurti too says there is no path.

What they propose is a no-path. It cannot be counted among paths. One can arrive by the no-path as well—but it is a no-path. The paths are two: devotion and meditation. The no-path is one. The no-path also must be understood; it is a very profound, very useful insight.

Bodhidharma, Ashtavakra and Krishnamurti emphasize that you have never been separate from the divine. You have never gone anywhere far. So how will you find That by setting out on a path? You are already there. If you drop all seeking, you have arrived. It is because of seeking that you are wandering; seeking implies distance. We seek only what is far; we seek the other. The very idea of seeking means the search for something other than oneself. How will you search for yourself? Where will you go to search? You already are yourself. So this too is a possibility—but it is the most difficult possibility. With love and devotion the matter is resolved more easily; meditation is a little harder than that; the no-path is harder still. It appears simple—don’t be deceived by that. It appears simple precisely because it is so difficult. The simpler it seems, the harder it is. What is difficult can be tackled; what is utterly simple becomes very hard to handle. The truth is: where you are, there is the divine. As you are, so is the divine. So there is nowhere to go.

We hear the famous saying: “Those who sought, found.” If you ask Bodhidharma, he will say, “Those who sought, lost.” Because to seek is to go somewhere; and if you go somewhere, you go away. Both are true. But you can understand Bodhidharma only when you have sought and sought and not found; when you have searched to exhaustion and not found; when you have run the very last lap the ego can run and then, tired and spent, you collapse—and in that very moment it happens. It happens in the moment you are not.

How will you not be? There are two ways. Either you melt in love: you will not be. Or you scatter and dissolve in meditation: you will not be. Or there is such an intelligence—what Krishnamurti calls “understanding”—such a clarity that neither love nor meditation is needed; it is simply understood and the happening happens. Difficult indeed. If such awakening were already there, it would already have happened.

That is why people keep sitting with Krishnamurti and don’t arrive anywhere. And what Krishnamurti says is exactly right—one hundred percent right. Perhaps it is precisely because it is a full hundred percent right that the miss happens. People are at a place where even one percent is hard to digest; and you go on speaking a hundred percent. Pay attention to people. Speak from where they stand. You are speaking from where you are. Bodhidharma speaks from where he is. Ashtavakra speaks from where he is. They do not concern themselves with the listener.

If I were to speak from where I am, I would be of no use to you. Then there would be such a gap between us that you could not raise a ladder to reach. The distance would become infinite. I must speak from where you are; slowly, slowly draw you along, coax you—one day bring you where I am. But if I only say what is true where I am, it will be meaningless for you. How many have understood Ashtavakra? How many? Krishna’s Gita reached many more—millions. Why did Ashtavakra’s Gita not reach? In Krishna’s Gita there is regard for the listener’s state. Begin from where the person stands; only from there can his journey begin. Ashtavakra has no such concern.

So if some Janaka understood, fine—but how many Janakas are there? To find even one is a miracle. Krishnamurti has not found even a single Janaka till now. He cannot—there are reasons. Even that Ashtavakra found one is somewhat doubtful—perhaps it is only a story. For one who has the capacity to be a Janaka would arrive without Ashtavakra. The very capacity to be Janaka means the person is already boiling at ninety-nine degrees; only such a one can understand what lies beyond a hundred. For him it is a matter of a single step—perhaps not even a step, just a slight movement, a tiny push. He is standing on the very edge of the precipice; a puff of wind would suffice. Even if the wind did not come, he would jump of his own accord. The divine was right before him, spread out before him. Even without Ashtavakra, Janaka would have arrived.

Ashtavakra is useful only to the one who would have arrived even without him—so he is not of very great practical use. His saying is sublime, but not useful. Krishna speaks to Arjuna from where Arjuna stands. Hence Ashtavakra’s Gita is repetition—repetition and only repetition—because there is one single thing to say, one single degree of the matter. He goes on saying the same thing, again and again. He repeats; the disciple repeats. Ashtavakra’s entire Gita could be written on one page, on a postcard. For what Ashtavakra says, Janaka repeats; then Janaka repeats, and Ashtavakra repeats. It is only repetition, because there is nothing else to say—one truth there, and one must go on saying it.

Krishna, by contrast, speaks of many things—of knowledge, of devotion, of action. He speaks of all the paths, because Arjuna is in a deep perplexity; he does not even know where he stands. He is in the marketplace where many roads branch out. Each path is explained to him—if one doesn’t suit, another is explained; if that too doesn’t suit, yet another. Let him come by any path—Krishna has no attachment to any particular path, and no anxiety that what is true where Krishna stands must be understood by Arjuna today. That expectation is excessive, unnecessary.

Therefore you will find Krishnamurti very restless—explaining and explaining for fifty years, and he sometimes beats his head in frustration. Because it does not seem that anyone is understanding. The same people sit and listen—some have been listening for fifty years; they have grown old along with Krishnamurti—and yet no revolution has happened. In fifty years a great journey could have happened. But the talk must begin from where the person stands.

So the no-path is for one in a million. Why even call it a path?

There is a Chinese tale. Lao Tzu once mocked Confucius, who was much concerned with ancient lore and social propriety. Confucius had come to meet him. Lao Tzu said, “All your discourses are about things that are no more than footprints left in the dust. And you know footprints are made by shoes, but they are not the shoes.” They say Lao Tzu’s laughter echoed down the centuries; Confucius could give no reply.

For Lao Tzu, the real “path”—call it the pathless—is like birds flying in the sky; they leave no footprints. A bird flies; no trace remains, no track is made. Truth is not like walking on earth; it is like flying in the sky.

On the ground a path is made. You walk, and a footpath forms; many pass, and it becomes a road. So many devotees have passed over aeons that a path of devotion has formed. So many meditators have been that a path of meditation has formed. But these ones—Ashtavakra, Bodhidharma, Lao Tzu, Krishnamurti—have no path. They say truth is like flying in the sky. True—true for those who can fly in the sky.

But what of those who are still walking on the ground? Not even walking—dragging themselves. What of those who have known nothing but the ground? What of those who do not even know they have wings? Even if the distant sky appears to them, they will only yearn; they will not be able to fly. They do not know they have wings. Their sleeping wings must be awakened slowly, slowly; they must be coaxed alive; their courage must be built little by little. They have wings, the divine is with them—if only they would open their eyes, it is right here. But they will not open their eyes—that is the whole trouble. They sit with eyes clenched shut. They must be slowly persuaded to open them. Slowly, slowly—this gradual opening is what I call a path. Opening them at once is the no-path.

It is said of Kabir, when he was young, that some people came to him asking for the path to God; they wanted an intellectual map of that mysterious way. Rabindranath has commented on this. He writes that Kabir said only this: Path presupposes distance. Understand it. Path presupposes distance; but if He be near, no path is necessary. Truly, it makes me laugh that a fish in the ocean is thirsty.

“Path presupposes distance;
If He be near, no path needest thou at all.
Barely it maketh me smile to hear
of a fish in water being thirsty.”

Path means “far.” Path presupposes distance. If He is near, what path? And if You are That, not even an inch away, where will you make a path? The more you walk, the more you wander.

The logic is exact: the more you walk, the more you go astray. Do not walk—awaken. Kindle awareness where you are; light the lamp where you stand—and all will happen. But this message will fall on your ears as if on deaf ears. You may hear it—you know the language—but no doors will open.

The devotee says: As of now, there is distance.
When you awaken you will find there never was any distance.
But as of now, there is distance—great distance, endless distance. Granted that the endless distance is false—but just now, it is. False it may be, but it is.

If you are afraid, what does it matter that the ghost that frightens you is false? The fear is real. On a dark night you pass a cremation ground and are afraid that ghosts will trouble you. There are no ghosts—perhaps there is not even a cremation ground; someone has played a prank and said, “Be careful, there is a cremation ground on the way,” and the idea has taken hold. Now a leaf rustles and you think a ghost has come; a dog scampers by, a bird flutters, and you think, “It’s here!” You start running. Your chest pounds, your limbs shake, you are drenched in sweat. You lose your wits, stumble on a stone, and think, “Now I’m done for!” You fall, perhaps faint.

Ghosts are false—true—but what is happening to you is real: the sweat, the pounding heart, the loss of sense. So the real question is not whether ghosts exist. If someone now tries to convince you there is no ghost, you may hear it and still not understand. You need a remedy—some device to free you from these false ghosts. Granted, the remedy will also be false; the false is cut by the false. Truth is not needed to cut the false; the false can cut the false. But some device is needed to cut it now. And once the false is cut, you too will understand there was no cremation ground, no ghost—I was needlessly afraid. Then you will laugh; you will agree that it was all a web of untruth.

Devotion and meditation are more compassionate toward man. The talk of the no-path is not compassionate. It is true, but there is no kindness in it, no mercy—it is very austere. That is why Krishnamurti will appear austere. That is why he could not be a guru. One cannot be a guru with so much austerity.

A guru needs inexhaustible compassion—such compassion that he descends into the valleys where his disciples are wandering; such compassion that he reaches those dark lanes where they are stuck, holds their hands, and begins to lead them back towards the peaks. The road will be hard; the disciples will refuse to climb; they will create every kind of obstacle; again and again they will try to run back to the ravines. Again and again the guru will have to return, take their hands. The disciples will never forgive him—because he is “after them” for no reason. They want to sleep; he keeps waking them. They want to taste a little more of the world; he makes it tasteless. They want to settle into house and home; he upsets everything. To them he will seem like an enemy. Yet the guru keeps returning and leading them back.

There is another sort of person—he has reached the peak and, standing there, shouts, “People of the valley, listen—this is the truth!” But the people are far; the voice does not reach. And even if the words reach, the meaning does not. How could it? They will give your words the meaning they know—the meaning of the valley, not of the peak. They have never seen the peak; they do not know its language.

Therefore the paths are two: devotion and meditation. There is also one no-path. If you wish to count the no-path among paths, you can say there are three. But since it is a no-path, I do not count it. And since only rarely does someone arrive by it, it can be left out of account. And the one who arrives that way is so rare that we can accept him as an exception; there is no need to make him the rule.

On the no-path there is no guru. On the no-path there is no method. On the no-path, to ask “how” is to ask the wrong question. The no-path proceeds on the premise that you are already there—just open your eyes and see. And it is true—there is not a trace of falsehood in it. But there is no compassion in it; there is no tenderness. It is dry—desert-like.

Devotion too brings you there—but it is merciful to you; slowly, slowly.

I have heard that foxes in the forest employ a device—that is exactly the device of devotion and meditation. Sometimes flies or bees sit all over a fox. How to get rid of them? If she shakes her head, they settle on the rump; she switches her tail, they settle on the head; shake both, they settle in the middle. Run, and it makes no difference; the flies stay. They swarm around and torment her.

What does the fox do? Those who have watched foxes say she does something very skillful: she goes down into a river or pond—backwards, tail-first. First her tail goes under; the flies leave the tail. Then her back submerges; they leave the back. Then the neck begins to sink; they leave the neck. And the fox does a cleverer thing still—she holds a leaf in her mouth. As she goes under further and even her head begins to sink, all the flies gather on her nose. Then, with the final dip, she submerges her nose; all the flies jump onto the leaf. She releases the leaf, and it floats away down the river with the flies.

Step by step—gradual, one thing at a time. The happening itself is in a single instant—that is true. As long as the flies are sitting on her nose, they are still all on her. They are not on the tail, not on the back—but they are still on the fox. Not a single fly has yet gone. Up to the last moment they are all still there. They go in one instant. When she takes that last dip, in a single moment they all get onto the leaf and the leaf carries them off. The event does not happen gradually—remember that.

Do not think the devotee gradually comes closer to God. Nor think the meditator gradually comes closer to samadhi. No—the event is sudden; it happens unawares, in a single instant. But the preparation for the event is gradual. Understand this distinction well. The no-path people say it happens in a single instant—and they are right; it happens in a single instant. But the preparation… sometimes it takes years, sometimes even lifetimes.

And note: until it happens, the one who has prepared and the one who has not are both standing in the same darkness. Only, the one who has prepared may be boiling at ninety-nine degrees, and the one who has not may be at forty, or thirty—lukewarm, or still cold, even ice. No one has become steam yet. But the one at ninety-nine is close to becoming steam. Steam is born in a moment: a hundred degrees—and leap!

Devotees too know that the leap is sudden. But they do not talk about the leap; they say: when it has to happen, it will happen—why talk about it? You do the preparation. Bring the flies, slowly, slowly, up to the nose—so that only the leaf remains for them to rest on; then let go of the leaf, and the moment they jump to it, in a single instant you are free. Free of the flies.

On the summit of the void, the moonlight of the Unseen.
That moon, the moon of mystery—the moonlight of the Unseen. The radiance of the ultimate mystery is burning in emptiness. If you are to descend into that supreme mystery, you must enter the void. To the summit of the void. You must climb to the peak of nothingness. You must leave the valley of ego. You must leave the ego’s darkness, its ravines and pits. You must rise to the peak of emptiness. Gradually you must dissolve. Only the one who dissolves becomes worthy of attaining the Divine.

On the summit of the void, the moonlight of the Unseen.
Neither the Vedas nor the scriptures can reach there.
There neither the Vedas go nor the holy books. They have no movement there. That realm is inaccessible. No one can move there. Not even you can go there as you are. No one can. You go there only when you have become nothing. Only emptiness goes—only the void has passage into the void.

Only the one who has dissolved in every way reaches the Divine—the one who has not tried to save himself at all, who has dropped every arrangement for self-preservation, every security. To reach God is a kind of suicide—the real suicide. What you call suicide is body-suicide; there the body dies and another body will be had. That is not self-suicide—don’t call it that. True self-suicide happens in samadhi. When you are utterly gone, erased. Not even a trace remains.

On the summit of the void, the moonlight of the Unseen.
Neither the Vedas nor the scriptures can reach there.
No words go there. No theories go there. No shastras go there. You cannot go there as a Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. You cannot go there as an Indian, Chinese, or Japanese. You cannot go there as white or black. You cannot go there as man or woman. You cannot go there as young or old. You cannot go there as learned or ignorant. So long as you cling to any definition of yourself, to any boundary, you will not be able to go. When you drop all definitions, drop all limits, when you no longer even know “I am,” then such emptiness will light up and tremble within you—and then you can go.

When the eyes open, Beauty is everywhere.
And the real matter is the opening of the eye. When the eye opens, everything is seen.

When the eyes open, Beauty is everywhere.
Then His beauty is seen in every way. He is not far; He is nearer than near, closer than close. He is present every moment. But the thing is, your eyes are closed. We are blind, while the sun stands at the door. And we ask, “Where is the sun?” We ask, “Where is the light?” We are blind, yet we do not ask the real question—how to open the eyes? We ask whether the sun exists or not. Does the sun exist or not? What proof is there that the sun exists? And those who provide us proofs are worse off than the blind.

Has any knower given proof of God? Those who tried were all unknowing. There can be no proof for God. It would be like giving proof of light to a blind man. What proof will you give?

A blind man was brought to Buddha—he was a great logician. He had defeated the whole village, conquered the village pundits. Everyone brought him to Buddha saying, “We are defeated. You have come; please explain something to him. He says light does not exist, and we cannot prove it by logic. He is such a logician—unlike any we have seen. He says, ‘If there is light, bring it and put it in my hand so that I may touch it. If, as you say, it cannot be touched, then strike it so I may hear its sound. If there is no sound, then give me a taste of it so I may taste it. If there is no taste, bring it close to my nostrils so I may smell it.’”

Light has no smell, no taste, it cannot be touched, and you cannot strike it to produce a note or a ring. So the blind man laughs: “How clever! You want to make a fool of me? You yourself are blind, you madmen. There is no such thing as light. These are rumors spread by liars. And all with a single intent—to prove that I am blind, as if you are the ones with sight! None of you has eyes. Where is light? Give me proof.”

Buddha listened. The blind man sat with great arrogance. He said, “If you have any proof, present it; I will refute each one.” Buddha said, “I am not mad like these madmen. You do not need proof; you need a physician.” Buddha sent him to his own physician, Jivaka. “He is an extraordinary healer. He will do something. You don’t need proof; you need medicine. Your eyes should open. There is no proof of light other than that. If the eye opens, there is light; if the eye is closed, then even if there are millions of suns, what difference does it make? The eye is closed. Go.”

The man went. Buddha’s physician labored greatly. In six months the cataract was removed. He was not inherently blind—no one is. There was a film over the eye, a film of many births—it was cut away. He opened his eyes and saw that the whole world is full of light—light dancing on every leaf, every pebble bathed in radiance, the whole world luminous.

Dancing, he came to Buddha’s feet, tears of joy in his eyes. He was thrilled, fell at Buddha’s feet. Buddha said, “Now, what do you think about proofs?” The man said, “Forgive me. And from my villagers I beg forgiveness too. I was blind, yet I would not accept it, because it went against my ego to admit, ‘I am blind, and others have eyes.’ To save this ego, there was only one way: to prove that light does not exist. So I kept chanting, ‘There is no light, there is no light.’”

Those who say there is no God are trying to save their ego. If God is, the ego must vanish. So better to say there is no God. What God? Which God? What proof? And for God there is no proof—experience alone is proof.

When the eyes open, Beauty is everywhere.
When the eye opens, His beauty is manifest all around. From every side He signals; from every side you will find Him peeking. From every side He calls. In the cuckoo’s throat He is there; in the peacock’s dance He is there. When clouds gather in the sky, it is He who gathers. He is in the night, the moon, the stars; He is in animals and birds; He is in human beings. He is everywhere. Only One is expanding, One in infinite forms, One’s play.

When the eyes open, Beauty is everywhere.
Neither less by day nor by night.
And then there is no difference. When the eye is open, He is in day and in night. In light and in darkness. When the eye is open, He is in every condition. Then there is no need for conditions. He is to the renunciate and to the householder alike—not only to the renunciate and not to the householder. He is to the wise and to the foolish, to children and to the old, to the beautiful and the unbeautiful, to women and to men—without condition.

The Word does not strike through your fortress.
But you have hidden Him well within and you don’t let the blow land. The truth’s blow makes you smart, and wherever it would strike, you don’t go. You go where your wall is propped up and flattered, where you are told to raise your wall a little higher; you go where you are consoled, given comfort. Where there is truth, you don’t go. You flee, because truth strikes.

You avoid the true Master. You avert your eyes in every way, because he will strike your wall, your coat of mail, the fortress you have built. Only when that breaks can the God hidden within you appear.

The Word does not strike through your fortress.
That Word lies within you. The Beloved is seated within. The unstruck sound is still resounding within you—but you hide in your fort. Because of the fort, it cannot be revealed. And you have built so many forts—of wealth, of status, of prestige. You hide in these false citadels.

The Word does not strike through your fortress.
The essence rings through the whole cosmos.
And the wonder is that that very ringing resounds throughout the cosmos, yet you have built such walls that you hear neither its sound within nor its sound without. You hear everything but the voice of God. You hear lust, greed, attachment—you are skilled at hearing every kind of voice, except the one voice of the Supreme Essence whose resonance is everywhere.

Says Kamal, Kabir-ji’s boy:
What you call yoga is all enjoyment; it does not transcend the three worlds.
And what you have taken to be yoga is also mere indulgence. It does not go beyond the three worlds. What have people begun to call yoga? Someone twists the body into postures and thinks he has gained siddhi, that he has arrived.

Bodily perfection cannot become self-perfection. Bend the body this way and that, learn circus tricks—nothing essential will happen. Yes, you will gain good health—but that is enjoyment. Good health—what has that to do with yoga? You may live a bit longer. Others die at eighty; you may live a hundred, or even one hundred fifty. So what?

You give such importance to this. Let a “mahatma” visit the village whose age is one hundred fifty; you are much impressed. But this is the language of indulgence. You too want to live one hundred fifty years; that’s why you are impressed.

I have heard of a yogi in the Himalayas telling people his age was seven hundred. An English traveler was there, listening. Seven hundred didn’t sit well with him—the man didn’t look more than seventy. Seven hundred! He poked around. People said, “We don’t know; he says seven hundred, then it must be so. He’s a great saint. Yogis have always done such miracles.” Then he asked a disciple—barely a thirty-year-old lad whose job was to massage the master’s limbs and cook. He got friendly and asked him privately at night, “You live with him—tell me, how old is he?” The boy said, “I can’t say. I’ve been with him only three hundred years—how can I vouch for seven hundred?” These things impress you. Why? Because you too want to live. If there were a trick to live seven hundred years—ah!—you’d be thrilled. If someone is living seven hundred, hope arises in you: we’ll get a herb, a mantra, a siddhi. But this is the language of indulgence.

Yoga speaks of the timeless, not of time. That yoga is not real which teaches tricks to live seven hundred years.

What you call yoga is all enjoyment; it does not transcend the three worlds.
Then others sit and look within, thinking the kundalini is awakening and climbing the spine. These too are games of the mind—nothing essential. Someone sees light in the head, lotuses blooming within—these are imaginations. Better than imagining murder, yes; better than imagining heaps of money and counting notes—all the same, still imagination. Beautiful imaginations, religious imaginings—but imaginations nonetheless, the net of the mind.

What is yoga? Yoga is the state of zero-ness.

On the summit of the void, the moonlight of the Unseen.
No energy is rising, no kundalini is awakening, no lotuses are blooming, no thousand-petaled lotus is forming, no light, no darkness—only the supreme void. Every state has become even. No scene remains—only the Seer remains.

Let me repeat: no scene remains, only the Seer remains. No experiences remain—only the pure capacity to experience. Experiences as such are finished. Experience is the world. Therefore there is no experience “of God”; when one is free of all experience, what remains is what we call the experience of God.

Says Kamal, Kabir-ji’s boy.
Kabir’s son was named Kamal. Kabir himself named him so—he was a “wonder,” a marvel. At times he outdid even Kabir. Being Kabir’s own son, he was named Kamal.

You have heard a famous saying, much misunderstood. People think Kabir was angry with Kamal. He was not—he could not be. There is a story. Kamal did things that did not fit ordinary policy or social order. He was Kamal—a marvel—no conventional, decorous man.

Kabir must have been a bit inconvenienced. He understood exactly where Kamal stood; he was in the right place. Yet Kabir valued decorum too, because people would get into trouble. If all saints lived beyond convention—well, one Krishna is all right, but Rama is needed too. Maryada Purushottam is needed; otherwise people will be in great difficulty. That’s why people worship Krishna but follow Rama. They may worship Krishna, but they do not live by him. Who will dare? The police will catch you soon enough. They acknowledge Rama and behave like Rama. Still the Hindus showed courage by calling Krishna the full avatar and Rama a partial one—but it is decorum that binds.

Yet people need decorum. They live in such dark lanes that even a flicker is much light to them. Those who live on the sunlit peak—let them be; for the rest, rules are needed, an order, a decorum.

Kamal was Krishna-like. He recognized no decorum and had no concern for it. That too is a mode of saintliness—indeed the ultimate expression. But Kabir saw some sense in social order. The blind need a stick in hand. Even if you have eyes, don’t snatch the blind man’s stick—that was Kabir’s point. Granted, the stick is unnecessary when the eye has opened; but let the eye open first. Then policy falls away; dharma first must arrive. If you snatch policy and dharma has not come, you have only hurt them more. Blind they were; now you’ve taken their stick too. Sick they were; now you’ve taken their medicine, and health is nowhere in sight.

So Kabir must have scolded Kamal now and then. In the end it came to where Kabir said, “Make arrangements to live separately,” for Kamal lived with him. Kabir would say something; Kamal would say something else. He would talk to Kabir’s disciples in ways that left them bewildered.

But Kabir was not angry. You’ve heard the line that became famous; even Kabirpanthis think Kabir spoke it in displeasure—but Kabir could not be displeased. He had compassion even for ordinary people; he understood them, hence he spoke for decorum. He understood Kamal too, for he himself stood on the same summit of emptiness. He could not be angry with Kamal. He said: “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal.” People think this means, “My lineage is ruined—this Kamal has been born!” Not so. Understand it:

“Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal”—Kabir’s line has come to its culmination; a son like Kamal has arisen. People suppose “poot” (son) is used sarcastically, as we sometimes call a wastrel a “good son.” As if to say, “What ‘great sons’ are born—have sunk the boat, sunk the family’s decorum.” Not that.

The meaning is like the old Bible. The Old Testament begins: God made Adam; Adam had sons; the sons had sons; a genealogy—Genesis—an entire list. Then Joseph was born and married Mary, and Mary’s son was Jesus. There the genealogy ends, because Jesus had no son. The long lineage stops at Jesus—the ultimate peak arrived. “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal”—the final word arrived. What son after this? The last flower has bloomed; now no further branches or offshoots. With Jesus the lineage of the Old Testament culminates—the summit reached, where else to go?

That is Kabir’s meaning: Kabir’s line has culminated. Such a son has been born that he will not build a worldly lineage. He will not run a household. He will not marry; no sons will issue. That’s why Kabir said it—not in sarcasm but in deep reverence—though it was not understood.

It so happened the King of Kashi heard that when people would come to offer gifts, Kabir would say, “What will I do with money? Take it back”—as a saint should say. Outside, Kamal would be sitting; he’d say, “Now that you’ve brought it this far, where are you taking it? Come, leave it here. You carried it all the way, why carry it back? Drop the load.” People grew suspicious: “Kabir is a saint, but this one—he seems greedy. He has a trick: ‘Where are you taking it?’ and he has it left with him.”

So Kabir said, “Brother, make your own little hut. Live separately. Do your own thing. Complaints come daily: ‘We were taking the money away, you said…’” Now understand people: when they offer money to a saint, they secretly hope the saint will refuse. Why did you go to give it then? They think, “If he is a real saint, he will refuse; not only refuse—if he has anything with him, he will add it and give back to us: ‘What will I do with money and goods?’” Then why did you go to give? And when the saint refuses, you are delighted. The saint grows taller by the savings you make. You weigh even the saint on your scales of money.

Kamal was not understood. He was the real thing; in a way, more straight than Kabir. Kabir says, “What’s in money?”—that pleases you because your money is returned. And Kamal says the same: “What’s in money? Where are you taking it? Leave it here.” Then you are stuck. You like Kabir’s words because your money is safe—Kabir becomes great, your purse remains heavy.

Money, for you, has much in it. If you had understood Kabir, you’d have left the money there. You would have said, “If there is nothing in it, why should I carry it? Why should I take it back?” If you had understood Kabir, you would have said, “Then why refuse? If it’s just paper—when I offered flowers at your feet you did not refuse. Today I offer notes and you refuse. If there is nothing in them, let it be my play, my feeling—keep them. Let them lie. What harm to you? They are nothing. A breeze will blow them away, or someone will pick them up. Why bother? Flowers you accepted; why speak now when it’s paper, if nothing is in it?”

If you really understood, you would say, “Then I won’t take it back.” But you don’t understand; you are clever. “Wonderful! The man is very great, beyond money!” You quickly slip the notes back into your pocket: “Good, money saved and the saint grew greater.” Now you are no longer afraid—you can bring twice the notes next time, certain he won’t take them. You enjoy the pleasure of giving and still keep your money—two gains, no loss. Later, before God, you will say, “I went, sir, and I gave—but Kabir would not take. What could I do? I donated, yet my money was saved.” Two birds with one stone.

But Kamal’s word does not please, because it hits your greed. He says, “Brother, now that you’ve lugged it this far, why carry this useless load any farther? Leave it.” Then you are troubled. He is saying exactly what Kabir said, but he speaks from the place that opposes your greed. And if you understand me, his word is even deeper than Kabir’s, because Kabir’s refusal did not end your greed; Kamal’s would end it—he strikes where it hurts.

Complaints must have piled up, so Kabir said, “Make a separate hut. If someone gives you something, take it there. Otherwise people will think this is Kabir’s trick: the father says ‘What’s in it?’ while the son takes it. Some ruse! The son won’t let go, and the father says ‘What’s in it!’ The son sits outside and collects everything. People think it’s a scam. So be separate.” Kabir did not say, “You are wrong.” How could he? If Kabir said “wrong,” who would say “right”? Kabir could see.

One day the King of Kashi came to meet them; he had heard Kamal was now apart. He brought a great diamond. He asked for Kamal; Kabir said, “He’s grown up; he lives nearby in a hut.”

The king went to see him, offered the diamond. Kamal said, “You brought a stone! Neither to eat nor to drink. What shall I do with it? Had you brought fruit or sweets, that would be something. You brought a stone. You’ve grown old—yet no sense?”

The king thought, “People say he hoards money—but listen to what he says!” He began to put the diamond back into his pocket. Kamal said, “Now why put it back? Will you carry stones all your life?” The king thought, “People were right—he’s clever! A crafty saint—won’t leave the diamond.” So he asked, testing him, “Where shall I keep it?” Kamal said, “Why ask where to keep it? Take it back then. For if you ask where to keep it, you still see it as a diamond. Who ever asks where to put a stone? Drop it anywhere. The hut is big; it can lie somewhere. Children from the neighborhood sometimes come—they’ll play with it, or someone will take it. Thieves sometimes come too—it might be of use to them. Why ask where to keep a stone? Put it anywhere.”

But the king wanted a full test. Showing Kamal, he shoved the diamond into the thatch of the hut so that Kamal would know where it was. Eight days later he returned. He was sure the moment he had stepped out, Kamal must have taken it down and sold it by now.

After eight days he came, made small talk—his real purpose was the diamond. At last he asked, “What happened to that diamond?” Kamal said, “How amazing—you’re still stuck on diamonds! You are blind—when will you see? You brought a stone; now you talk of a diamond?” The king said, “Leave aside wisdom. I ask: what happened to it?” Kamal said, “Where you kept it—if no one took it, it should be there.” The king thought, “He’s very cunning—‘if no one took it.’ He must have taken it.” He stood up, felt in the thatch; the diamond was exactly where he had left it. His eyes were opened. “He says what is true—‘if no one took it.’” He fell at Kamal’s feet.

He then went to Kabir and said, “You did not do right to separate your son.” Kabir replied with that line: “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal.” Not said in censure—though the Kabirpanthis take it so—but spoken to declare supreme blessedness.

These few lines are by that same Kamal:
Says Kamal, Kabir-ji’s boy:
What you call yoga is all enjoyment; it does not transcend the three worlds.
On the summit of the void, the moonlight of the Unseen.
Neither the Vedas nor the scriptures can reach there.
When the eyes open, Beauty is everywhere.
Neither less by day nor by night.
The Word does not strike through your fortress.
The essence rings through the whole cosmos.

He is present everywhere—look with an empty eye. You are looking with a stuffed eye; that is why you miss. Awaken the eye of emptiness—emptiness is samadhi.

Here, drink me. And drown here so deeply that you lose all your senses. Lose your head, and you become a devotee. The wine of grapes wears off—drink today and by morning, or by evening, it’s gone. But this is the real wine; once it rises, it does not subside. Enter it slowly, slowly.

It’s going well. For now the intoxication lasts an hour, an hour and a half—gradually it will deepen. Don’t panic. Don’t be afraid—if you fear, you’ll miss. When the intoxication descends, when the eyelids grow heavy, when the mind feels rapt, when a song begins to sprout within, then naturally solitude will be desired. The presence of another becomes an obstacle to this vibrant inner state. The other pulls you outward while you are moving inward; so irritability arises. This happens in the beginning. Later a moment comes in this drunkenness when, even with the whole world present, it makes no difference—but let the intoxication reach that depth. Till then, when the wave rises, sometimes seek solitude. Lie down, sit quietly. Sit in some mosque or temple where nobody goes—who goes there now? Sit in a corner of a gurdwara, or walk out of the village to the riverbank. Or in your own house, shut yourself in a room.

When the intoxication rises, honor it. Talking at that time—wasting energy in conversation—will create irritation. Not only irritation; an inner conflict will arise. Inside, the energy is flowing toward the soul, and outer talk pulls you outward. You’ll be moving in two directions—a tug-of-war, tension, pain. And the benefit that was to come will be missed.

When the inner flow begins, when the current arrives—then float with it. Forget everything and dive. Even if for a single instant you reach within, it is a supreme blessing. This is only a transitional phase. Gradually the intoxication will become steady. I’m saying this for the beginners, those who have just started drinking; once you are accustomed, no obstacle remains. Then you will keep flowing within and still be able to speak with anyone.

Think of learning to drive a car. In the beginning there are great difficulties. Keep your eye on the steering and your foot slips from the accelerator. Watch the accelerator and you forget the brake. Put your foot on the brake and you don’t remember the clutch. How to remember all of it together? Such restlessness—you’re drenched in sweat.

Then once driving comes, do you have to remember all this? It happens automatically, mechanically. The feet take care of clutch, accelerator, and brake. And the hand—one hand is enough—holds the steering wheel. You can sing a song, listen to the radio, think a thousand thoughts, imagine, dream. People even say about expert drivers that they sometimes doze for a minute—if the body is perfectly skilled, nothing much goes wrong.

Exactly so with this intoxication. You are learning now, so irritation arises—it’s a good sign. It simply shows something new is sprouting and someone tries to uproot it. You are going inwards and someone starts talking about outside things—“That film is running great!” If irritation didn’t arise, would great joy arise? Or he says, “Have you heard—about Morarji Desai…?” Then there will be obstacles, irritation. Avoid it. There is no need to invite irritation. When such ecstasy descends, take a dip for a while. Let it have you completely. Sometimes, in a single instant, the happening will be complete—you will plunge within, emerge, fresh and refreshed. And then all day you’ll feel a freshness, a giddiness of joy, a soft humming within.

In the sky of the eyes float the golden clouds of form;
in the sky of the eyes float the silver clouds of form.
The groves have drunk the wine; the braid of fragrance has come loose.
Silken, pointed rays are piercing stone.
Now none can be spared, who can impose rules and restraints?
Sink, too, in ecstasy—take moonlight by the arm.
In the sky of the eyes float the silver clouds of form.

Moonlight has snapped those wretched bonds of modesty;
the naked sky has tied a knot with the sky-clad.
In this washed air, in the guard of honeyed sweetness,
if only for a moment—flow free in the nectar-stream.
In the sky of the eyes float the silver clouds of form.

Even for a single instant, a single moment—flow free in the nectar-stream. When this little spring of elixir appears, even if only for a moment, flow free in it.

In the sky of the eyes float the silver clouds of form.

At such a time, don’t get entangled in idle talk. Dive into yourself, take the plunge. In that moment, close the doors to the outside. Engage yourself wholly in the inner journey. That is exactly what we are attempting here—that somehow you begin to move within. And if day after day you go in and day after day you feel irritated by the outside, then harm will result. There is a danger that irritation might become a habit. But this is only transitional; it will not remain forever. Once you become accustomed, it will be gone.

A drunkard used to live near me—a seasoned drunkard. It was hard to tell he’d been drinking; such was his practice. Only those who knew him well knew he’d had plenty. He stayed with me for days and I had no idea he was drunk. His wife told me, “Do you know he’s drunk twenty-four hours a day?” I said, “I had no idea.”

She said, “I too had no idea for three years after we married—until one day he came home without drinking. Then I knew. He seemed out of sorts, not settled, speaking oddly, a little low-spirited. And that particular fragrance that always came from him—today it wasn’t there. What’s the matter? Then he confessed, ‘I’m a bit fond of drinking—a lot, actually.’”

So it will be with you. When you become well-practiced, no one will even know you are established within. You’ll run your shop, go to the market, buy and sell, go to the office, look after wife and children—no one will know. But for now, in the beginning, it’s a matter of practice. So drown. A blessed hour has come—don’t lose it.

Color upon color, nothing but color;
in the flying wind, colors of color.
Today, in your eyes, again and again, together,
we became colors for the sake of color.
In these very days, the river swelled and you gave it banks;
in these very days you gave bloom to lips and eyes.
In these very days I have been drenched again and again,
here and there, wherever, everywhere—
across how many ages, again and again
we have lived together.

A lovely hour is approaching, when your togetherness with me will sit as one—the hour of satsang.

Across how many ages, again and again,
here and there, wherever, everywhere,
we have lived together.

Once you descend fully into this sweet wine, the companionship is complete. Then even if you are thousands of miles away, it makes no difference. Even if I am not in this body and you are not in yours, it makes no difference. The moment this wine seizes you, I will seize you. The moment you become drunk on this wine, you will come close to me.

Don’t be afraid. Fear is natural in such moments. It feels as if, “What is happening? Is something unnatural going on? Could this bring danger? Is some trouble coming?”

Such feelings are perfectly natural, because you have lived in a certain way, and now a new ecstasy is arriving in it. Whenever something new begins, the mind is afraid. The mind is content with the old and trembles before the new. But the divine is ever-new, utterly new. Only as you slowly befriend the new will a path open one day to the divine. And this ecstasy is his very ecstasy.
Whoever has asked—bhakti is his path; let him remember this. For anyone who feels the urge to plunge into intoxication, bhakti is his way. The meditator goes toward the Divine with awareness; the devotee goes in a sacred swoon. The meditator proceeds carefully; the devotee staggers along, swaying in ecstasy. The meditator goes in silence; the devotee goes humming. The meditator places each step with care. The devotee has no worry at all. Caution and the like do not concern the devotee. The devotee reels like a drunkard, dancing as he goes.
Asked by Swami Vedant Bharati. The intoxication rising within you clearly announces that a devotee sits hidden inside. Within you a Meera could be born, or a Chaitanya could be born. Within you lies the possibility of a great dance. Gather a little courage. Keep a little daring. Do not be afraid. A unique opportunity is very near. If you show courage, it will happen.
The straying winds that sing
through the night’s shivering leaves,
the absent-minded falling drops that call to it,
the yellow chalices of flowers
that brim over with its smile,
beneath, the earth’s countless sap-drenched veins
that attend to it alone—
what spring brings, blazing summer bakes,
the rains wash, autumn gathers,
Agahan ripens and Phalgun sets it swaying,
and Chait cuts, binds, threshes, loads, and carries it away—
the whole natural passage—yet why “far”?
I, the one who breathes, who drinks the air,
in that, each time,
each time, ceaseless, untiring, unabated,
I live only you.

Every moment we are living the Divine alone. Either awareness dawns and the point is understood, or a swoon comes and the point is understood. What comes through awareness can be grasped even by the intellect. What comes through the swoon is very difficult.

Yesterday evening a sannyasin came—he was frightened. He had been meditating here for three months, then, with permission, went to the Himalayas for a month. When the taste begins to come in meditation, then even in the Himalayas the juice begins to flow. And the air on the Himalayas is like nowhere else; the purity is like nowhere else. Even now the silence of the Himalayas is as it was centuries ago across the whole earth. The Himalaya alone remains where the eternal and the timeless still reign.

A great tug for the Himalayas arose in his heart, a sudden call of the Himalayas. I told him, Go, meditate there. He returned from there. A few days ago he must have been coming to the morning discourse; at the gate, standing, he fainted and fell. He was unconscious for two hours. Somendra picked him up and took him to his room, cared for him for two hours. After two hours he came to. Of those two hours he had no idea where he had gone. Naturally he was frightened. Those who were nearby all said, It seems you have epilepsy—an epileptic fit. That explanation also appealed to him: what else could it be? Two hours of unconsciousness! Yet a small doubt remained in his mind, because all his life he had never had an epileptic fit, never had epilepsy—how did it happen suddenly today?

Last night he came to ask, Was it epilepsy? No, it was not epilepsy. For the first time he had bhava-samadhi. For the first time the hour of the devotee came in his life.

This used to happen to Ramakrishna every day. Doctors even then said it was epilepsy. Doctors now also say that Ramakrishna had epileptic fits, that he had hysteria. A doctor has his own grip; it does not go very deep. And in one sense the doctor is also not entirely wrong, because outwardly the signs of bhava-samadhi and of an epileptic fit are exactly the same. This too is an obstacle—what is the doctor to do? Bhava-samadhi comes to one among millions, epileptic fits come to many. And the symptoms of both are exactly the same: foam begins to come at the mouth, the limbs stiffen, consciousness is lost. After hours, when consciousness returns, there is no knowledge of what happened during the time of unconsciousness, as if everything became utterly dark, awareness completely lost.

So even about Ramakrishna they kept saying he had epilepsy. Ramakrishna would laugh. He would say, Blessed is my fortune that I have this epilepsy—and may everyone have it! When he would become unconscious, it would be for hours—once even for six hours. Once he remained unconscious for six days. Six days is a long time. The devotees became frightened. They began to weep and wail; they thought he would not return now. They asked the doctors; the doctors said, This is coma. Now he may or may not return. One can remain in coma for months; whether he will return, it cannot be said. After six days Ramakrishna returned. And do you know what he said on returning? As soon as he returned he began to beat his chest and weep, saying, Call me back there; why do you send me here? On this side the devotees are crying with joy that he has returned, very pleased that such grace has happened, that he remembered us. And Ramakrishna is saying, You foolish ones! You have no idea what I am missing. Call me back there again—quickly; here the heart does not settle.

Such an event befell this sannyasin too. But as it happened for the first time, he does not yet understand. Many forms of samadhi are going to happen here, to many people. To some, dhyana-samadhi will arise; to some, bhava-samadhi will arise. So be alert. Vedant may enter bhava-samadhi. If this intoxication is allowed to grow, then one day doctors will say, Epileptic fit. One day that unparalleled “epilepsy” will befall—after which alone one comes to know what the essence of life is, its meaning, its purpose.

That’s all for today.