Krishna Smriti #13

In the cosmic existence nothing is ever utterly annihilated. And in the cosmic existence nothing ever comes into being utterly new. Forms change, shapes change, configurations change, but in the deepest mysteries of being, what is, remains as it is. Persons come and are lost; waves rise upon the ocean and are dissolved; but that which was hidden in the wave, that which was within the wave, never dissolves.

If we look at Krishna in two ways, the matter becomes clear—and then we will also be able to see ourselves in two ways. One is our wave-form, and one is our ocean-form. As a wave we are persons; as the ocean we are Brahman. The face of Krishna that was seen, the body that was seen, the words that were heard, the voice that was heard—these are the wave-form. But that which stands behind those words, behind those dances, behind that personality is the ocean-form. The ocean-form is never lost. It always abides in the very life of existence; it simply is. It was there even before Krishna ever was, and it is there now when Krishna is not. It was there before you were, and it will be there when you are no more. Understand it this way: Krishna arose like a wave, danced upon the breast of the ocean in the light, in the winds of the sun—and then was reabsorbed into the ocean.

We too are just like that. There is only a small difference. When Krishna is dancing as a wave, he knows he is the ocean. When we are dancing as a wave, we forget that we are the ocean; we take ourselves to be only the wave. Since we take ourselves to be a wave, how can we recognize Krishna as the ocean? Then the form and shape in which the wave appeared can be used for the re-encounter with that wave. But the whole play is of the shadow-world. If you keep a few points in mind, the whole matter will become clear.

Krishna’s ocean-form can be encountered even today, right now. Mahavira’s ocean-form can be encountered; Buddha’s ocean-form can be encountered. The form in which they once appeared, the shape they assumed, can be used for the encounter with that ocean-form. It can become a medium. Images were not made, in the beginning, for worship. Images were first made as an esoteric science, a secret technology. In those images, the person who had lived in that form had pledged that if attention is focused upon this image, if this image is meditated upon totally, a connection will be established with my oceanic being.

You may have seen a street performer demonstrate a small act of hypnosis. The trick is simple: he makes a boy lie down and places a talisman on his chest. As soon as the talisman is placed, the boy goes into a trance. In that trance the performer asks him many things and the boy begins to answer. The performer comes to you and whispers, “Tell me your name softly in my ear.” You whisper, and the boy shouts from where he is, “This is the man’s name.” You speak so softly that the boy could not possibly have heard; even the person next to you could not hear. The performer then says, “There’s a banknote in your pocket—what is its number?” and the boy calls it out. The performer tells you, “This talisman is wondrous; because of it, the boy has gained such powers.” Right there he deceives you—and sells you the talisman for a few coins. You go home, place the talisman on your chest, lie down—and nothing happens. It will not. The talisman had nothing to do with it; the matter was with that boy.

There is a little process called post-hypnotic suggestion. If a person is put into deep trance—which is very easy—and in that deep trance he is told, “Look closely at this talisman; whenever it is placed on your chest you will again go into a trance,” then that suggestion settles into the depths of the unconscious. From then on, whenever that talisman is placed on his chest, he will immediately go into trance. And in trance, the unconscious faculties of our brain begin to function: what we cannot do in wakefulness, we often do in trance. We hear with far greater acuity, we see far more deeply. That talisman will not work on you, because no such deep suggestion has been planted in your unconscious.

When people like Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha, and Christ depart from the earth, those who love them, who have longed for them, who have received much in their nearness, ask: “After your bodily form is gone, if we want to remember you and relate with you, what should we do?” Then, in very deep states of meditation, if Krishna tells them, “Here is my image, here is my form. Whenever you meditate upon this, you will immediately be joined to me, to my ocean-form,” those images are being given in meditative states; they are symbols given in meditation. They are not for everyone. You can shout a lifetime before Krishna’s idol—nothing will happen. You can dance and cavort before Mahavira’s idol—nothing will happen. First, in meditation, you must have this inner suggestion: that through this image your connection can be made to the one whose image it is.

So when Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—people like these—first depart, they leave such instructions with their nearest circle. The first generation takes full advantage. In the second generation, those can benefit whose depths have again been imprinted—by the first generation—with that suggestion in deep meditation. Slowly the suggestion is lost; the image remains in the hand. It is as though you bring home a talisman from the market with no suggestion attached. Then you can sit before it your whole life—nothing will happen.

As I said of the image: the image is an esoteric bridge through which the person in wave-form has promised that a connection to his ocean-form can again be established. In exactly the same way, the Name is a bridge. The Name too can be used—but it must be given in the depths of meditation. Nowadays gurus whisper into ears; nothing happens. The point is not ear-whispering; the point is that in a very deep meditative state a word be given as a symbol, such that at the very remembrance or utterance of that word, the whole consciousness is transformed. Such words are called bīja-śabda—seed-words. They are “seed-words”; much has been poured into them.

If Krishna’s Name is a seed-word, it means that in a very deep meditative state it has been hidden in the abysses of your mind—and seeds are always hidden deep beneath the soil; the tree appears above, but the seed is always in the dark womb of the earth. If a word has been planted into the deep womb of your consciousness, and a suggestion planted with it, the results will begin.

Ramakrishna was in great difficulty. He could not walk down a street. He would be going along and someone would say, “Jai Ramji!”—and right there Ramakrishna would fall and go into samadhi. It was very hard to get Ramakrishna down a road. He was riding in a carriage toward a temple; a Ram-dhun was being sung there, and he was gone—he was drowned in it! He would be sitting in someone’s house talking, someone would say “Ram,” and he was gone! That word was a seed for him. That word was enough. But for us, it is hard to believe.

We too have certain seed-associations; if we understand them, it becomes clear. Someone becomes anxious and immediately places his hand on his forehead. If you stop his hand, he grows very restless. Someone, when troubled, sits in a particular posture; if you prevent that posture, he is in difficulty.

Dr. Hari Singh Gaur was arguing a case before the Privy Council. He had a constant habit: whenever a case was knotty and the argument difficult, he would fiddle with the top button of his coat. Those who had worked with him knew that when his hand went to that button, his speech would suddenly blaze; he would begin to speak as if he had not spoken at all before.

Once there was a major case and the opposing counsel was in trouble. He bribed Dr. Gaur’s chauffeur: “Take as much money as you like, but when you bring his coat from the car tomorrow, break off the top button and throw it away.” The button was removed. That day was the final argument. Dr. Gaur put his coat around his shoulders and stood to argue. At precisely the moment his hand reached for the button and found it missing, he fainted into his chair. In his memoirs he wrote, “For the first time in my life my brain stopped working altogether. It felt as if everything was lost, I could not speak, nothing was possible.” He had to request the magistrate to adjourn the case: “I have no capacity today.”

It seems strange: can a single button mean so much? It is the power of association. If, again and again, with that button under his fingers the mind had become active, then not finding it today, the mind suddenly became inert. This is the principle of conditioned reflex.

The Name has been used in this very way. That button became a seed for Hari Singh Gaur; it was no longer a simple button that fastens a coat—his mind too began to fasten to it. The Name can be used like this. It has been used. But by using an empty word nothing happens. The difference between an empty word and a seed-word is just this: a seed-word is planted into the depths of your unconscious and fixed so deeply that at its very remembrance you are transformed at once. Then it becomes a seed.

Krishna, Rama, Buddha, Mahavira—and other words and mantras—have been used as seeds. But now people go on repeating them mechanically. Sitting there, they say “Ram, Ram” a thousand times—and nothing happens. If it were a seed, once would suffice; there would be no question of saying it a thousand times. And it need not be Ram alone—any A-B-C could be made into a seed and planted deep in your being. When words and mantras become seeds, they can be useful in transforming the seeker’s depths. But our difficulty is that the original key is lost and the outer shell remains. Anyone keeps muttering “Ram, Ram”; anyone keeps shouting “Krishna, Krishna”; nothing happens, nothing can happen—never, not even after a lifetime of shouting.

You ask about kirtan. In the meditation experiment we are doing, the second stage—exactly that use can be made of kirtan. It has been used that way by those who know; those who do not know only shout and dance.

If kirtan, bhajan, dance are used just like that second stage, the results are vast. First, when you dance with great feeling, the body begins to appear separate from you. The body seems apart; you seem apart. In a short while you become the watcher, not the dancer. When the body comes into full momentum, full speed in the dance, suddenly there is a moment when you find you have become separate. Methods were devised to isolate that moment—so that you break off at once, the dance remains outside and you stand apart. The axle separates, the wheel keeps turning; and the axle recognizes, “I am the axle,” and the turning is the wheel.

Dance has been used like the potter’s wheel. Spin fast—then a moment comes when the axle is seen. It is a wonderful thing: if both axle and wheel are at rest, it is hard to tell which is which because both are still. When the wheel moves, the axle’s difference is known at once; that which does not move is recognized. You dance, and behind, within, something remains that does not dance. That is your axle, your center. That which dances is your circumference, your wheel. In that moment, if you become a witness, kirtan has been used marvelously. But if you do not become a witness and only do kirtan, the effort is wasted; it has no meaning.

Processes are born and they are lost. They are lost because, given human nature, what is essential is forgotten and what is non-essential is grasped. The essential lies deep; the non-essential is on the surface. The non-essential is like clothing on the outside; the essential is like the soul within. The inner is not seen; slowly only the outer remains and the inner is forgotten. Therefore times come—like now—when someone asks me, “Will anything happen through kirtan?” I say firmly: nothing will happen. Because I know kirtan has become a dead tradition. Only a dead frame remains. Now it is all wheel; within it, finding the axle has become very difficult.

No. Through kirtan and bhajan Chaitanya certainly attained exactly what I am talking about. Chaitanya danced his way to that which Buddha and Mahavira attain by standing still.

Both ways are possible. There are two ways to catch hold of the axle-pin. One way is to become so still that no vibration remains in you—utterly unmoving, steady, in a state of just standing; then you reach the pin. The other way is to move so totally, to be in such velocity, that the whole wheel runs and the pin becomes obvious. The second is easier. When the wheel spins fast, it’s easy to spot the pin. Very few can recognize the pin when the wheel is still. Mahavira recognizes it by standing still; Krishna, by dancing. And Chaitanya danced more than even Krishna. There is simply no comparison. There has perhaps been no dance like Chaitanya’s on this earth.

The point to note is only this: within us our circumference is in motion—there is change there; but in our deepest soul there is the eternal—no change there, all is quiet, silent, forever standing, like the pin, the unmoving axis. How are we to recognize that unmoving, that which is beyond change?

In the second stage of meditation that very principle is used in depth. But I am not calling it kirtan, because the word kirtan has been deposed; it has lost its meaning. Words, like coins, get worn by too much circulation; with wear the genuine and the counterfeit become alike. Words too get rubbed down and spoiled. A time comes when the mint must strike new coins.

So you will often find it difficult to understand me, because I am minting new coins for the very reason the old ones were once minted. But the old coins have circulated too long, through too many hands; they are so worn you can no longer recognize the face or the inscription—one can’t even tell whether they are coins or shards. Therefore everything must be begun afresh each time. And one must begin knowing that these new coins leaving the mint today will also be worn tomorrow, spoiled, and someone will have to mint anew. The one who mints new coins faces a great difficulty: he must fight the very coins for whose sake he lives. He must fight the very coins he is re-striking. The fight becomes unavoidable. To bring new coins to market, the old ones must be recalled to the mint. So I have to take your coins back from you—send them to the mint—because they are now useless; take the new ones instead. But there is attachment to the old coin. It has been with you long; even if worn, it is worn by your own hands. The new coin does not inspire immediate trust. This happens with religion every day.

Kirtan can be used greatly. If rightly understood, kirtan has a wondrous use. But now it will be very difficult to make you understand. Because when I say kirtan, you will understand only the kirtan you already know. You will say, “Exactly right, we are already doing kirtan. We already chant Ram-Ram—exactly as you say.” When your mind says “Exactly right,” I feel I may have made a mistake in saying something. Because I would not want to say you are right. If you were right, there would be nothing to say—after all, you are already chanting Ram-Ram. I am not endorsing your Ram-Ram. And you have been doing kirtan—yet I am not endorsing your kirtan. Because if you could have arrived through your kirtan, you would have arrived. You have not. I am speaking of the source, the essence of kirtan—not of your kirtan. I am speaking of the source of the Name—not of your chanting. I am speaking of the source of the image—not of the idols kept in your homes. Those I will have taken out and thrown away. Those cannot be kept.

But this does not mean there was nothing behind those formulas. There was much behind them. In truth, we can drag wrong formulas along for thousands of years only because there was once something living in them. Otherwise we could not drag them. If for thousands of years we keep dragging something without gaining anything, it only means that in human consciousness the memory of an experience remains hidden—that something was found through it once. Otherwise we could not keep dragging it. Even if someone drags trash for a long time, he does so because, in some past moment, a diamond was once glimpsed in that trash. Otherwise, who would drag trash? If false forms continue, they do so because behind the false there was once a truth that has been lost. Without that, the false cannot be carried along.

It fits perfectly—yes, perfectly. Among the travelers who love Krishna, Chaitanya is the most significant. In achintya bhedabheda, the precious word is achintya—the unthinkable. Those who think will either say there is a difference between the jiva and the world—so it is dualism; or they will say the jiva and the world are one—so it is nondualism. Chaitanya says: both—difference and non-difference. They are one and they are distinct. Like a wave and the ocean: the wave is distinct from the ocean and yet one with it. Of course—the wave is distinct, else we wouldn’t name it a wave; and it is one, because without the ocean where would it be? So the wave is both: different and non-different.

But even this still falls within thought; this too is a matter of thinking. And then he adds one more word: achintya, unthinkable. That word is the truly wondrous one. He is saying: if you have arrived at this by thinking, you have not found anything. If you’ve reasoned your way to it, it’s only a doctrine—you haven’t found. If you’ve come to it outside of thinking, then it is realized in experience.

Understand this well. As long as we arrive by thinking, we arrive only in words. When we arrive by living, we arrive beyond words—that becomes achintya. Life as such is achintya; it has no conceptualization. A man may understand love from the scriptures—much has been written on love; perhaps more than on anything else: vast literature, poetry, epics, commentaries, discussions. He may comprehend it and even define it—yet he has not known love. And another person may have heard nothing, understood nothing, known nothing about love, but has lived it. What is the difference between the two? One kind of knowing is thinkable—available through thought. The other is not thinkable; it is experience. Experience is always achintya. It doesn’t come from thinking; it precedes thinking. And thinking follows after experience—experience comes first, thought only expresses it.

Hence Chaitanya says: it is achintya. And when Chaitanya says it, it carries a special weight. Meera too would say it is beyond thought, but Meera was never a very thinking person. Chaitanya, however, was a great logician. His distinction is that he was a supreme dialectician; his logic had no end to it. He touched the highest peaks of reason. No one could match him in debate—wherever he stood to debate, he stood victorious. So when this Chaitanya—after so much disputation, so much display of scholarship, so much logic and dialectic—one day says, “Now I will dance, and seek the unthinkable,” the meaning changes. Meera was never a logician; love was her life. Chaitanya was the opposite—he was not, by nature, a man of love. If he came to love, he came through the defeat of thinking—not defeated by someone else, but finding within himself that place where thought is defeated and beyond it life still stretches ahead.

That is why I say: among those who have walked the path of Krishna, Chaitanya has no equal. In my view Meera too is on that path, but still there is no comparison with Chaitanya. For a man like Chaitanya does not dance; a man like Chaitanya does not dash through the streets beating a manjira. And when a man like Chaitanya starts striking the manjira and dancing in the streets crying “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama,” it makes one think; it deserves reflection. It’s as if Bertrand Russell began to dance—that’s the kind of man he was. So the value of his statement becomes very great. Its very value is this: that this man stepped into dance, began to clash cymbals and manciras, and declared, “It is achintya, and now we will drop thinking and realize it through non-thinking.” This announces that only those who plunge deeply into thought can truly go beyond thought. Those who go deep into thinking will one day surely reach that boundary where the limit comes, the frontier appears—where a milestone stands with the inscription: “Intellect travels only up to here; beyond this it does not go.” There is indeed such a place where the frontier of intellect arrives. Therefore Chaitanya’s statement has immense worth. It has the worth of one who has gone beyond that milestone. Meera never reached that stone; she never journeyed up to it.

There are very deep implications. The Krishna Consciousness movement is gaining strength in Europe and America day by day. Just as once Chaitanya resounded through the villages of Bengal, dancing and singing, today Hari-kirtan is heard on the streets of New York and London. This is not accidental.

In essence, where Chaitanya, as an individual, had become tired, the West is becoming tired collectively. Chaitanya, thinking and thinking, personally reached exhaustion and discovered that thinking cannot take you across; the West has grown collectively weary of thinking. From Socrates to Bertrand Russell the West has only thought, has tried to discover truth by thinking—this too was a vast austerity, a unique experiment—that from Socrates to Russell the West poured its very life into the attempt to reach truth by thinking, to grasp truth within the limits of logic and argument. And it has continually denied that truth which does not fall within the bounds of logic, which is beyond reason. It said, “We will accept only when our reason and our mind accept.”

In these twenty-five hundred years the West has reasoned profoundly. It is collectively exhausted—and no glimpse of truth has appeared. Again and again it seemed, “Here it is, here it is—now it is near, near,” but on coming close, only concepts remained in hand, only theories—truth was not there.

The collective consciousness of the West is arriving at the place where Chaitanya arrived as an individual. Therefore an explosion is possible—and it is happening. The first flowers before spring have begun to appear. Explosions are occurring here and there. The youth of the West are cracking open in many places and have begun to take steps toward the inconceivable. And if one is to step toward the inconceivable, there is no symbol more fitting than Krishna.

Mahavira’s utterances are deeply logical. Even when he speaks of mystery, his language is always of logic. If Mahavira says anything at all, the consistency of thought never breaks. Buddha, if he finds that something belongs to mystery, refuses to discuss it. He says, “It is inexpressible.” We will speak only as far as logic can go.

The tension in the Western mind today is born of thinking. The anxiety, the mental anguish, the torment—these are the results of pulling thought to its ultimate, to the very extreme. Thought has been stretched to where it is gasping. There the new generations will rebel. This rebellion will express itself in many forms. Because Chaitanya was one man, it took one form; when a whole generation rebels, it appears in many forms. To journey into the inconceivable, someone will begin chanting Krishna’s name through bhajan and kirtan. Another, to enter that inconceivable, will experiment with LSD and mescaline. Another, to enter it, will come to India and wander in the Himalayas. Someone else will go to Japan to the Zen monks in search of the inconceivable. The search for the inconceivable is on.

But I feel that in this search for the inconceivable, Krishna will slowly come closer and closer to the West. LSD cannot be a long-term companion. And how long will people keep traveling to India, and how many can? And how long will people go to Japan to sit at the feet of Zen monks? The West will have to discover its own consciousness. These borrowed means cannot last long.

A rupture is occurring in the Western psyche. And the delightful thing is this: if in India you see someone doing bhajan-kirtan, you will not find on his face that expression of joy which you see on the faces of the boys and girls in London when they sing and dance. For us it is a beaten track, a worn coin. We all know too well what we are doing. For them it is a brand-new coin; for them it is a leap. For us it is tradition; for them it is anti-traditional. When someone passes along a London street clashing hand cymbals and dancing, even the traffic policeman stops and thinks, “They’ve gone mad!” In our country no one will think so. Here, if someone does not do such things, he is the one thought to be a bit off; the one who does them is perfectly fine. But the religions of the world are moved by madmen, not by the clever. All the breakthroughs in the world—where things crack and change—happen through the mad, through the enraptured. In our country, doing bhajan-kirtan is not madness. It might once have been. When Chaitanya danced in Bengal, he was a madman—people thought he had gone crazy. Now it is not so. Tradition digests everyone, even the greatest madmen. It makes a place for them: “Here is your home; you too rest.”

In the West there is an explosive condition. That is why when the Western youth dance, there is great charm, great simplicity in that dance. It is not that a birth of Krishna is being prepared, but a birth of Krishna-consciousness certainly is. Krishna-consciousness has no connection with Krishna. “Krishna-consciousness” is a symbolic term; it means that a possibility is arising in the West that people will drop work and take up celebration.

Symbolic.

Yes, symbolic, in a symbolic sense. Work has become meaningless. The West has worked a lot, the West has thought a lot—whatever man could do within human limits—it has done it all; and it is exhausted, badly exhausted. Either the West will die, or it will enter Krishna-consciousness. And dying is no solution; it will have to enter Krishna-consciousness.

Christ does not seem so symbolic to the West today. The same reason: tradition. Christ has become tradition, and Krishna is anti-tradition. Krishna is a matter of choice; Christ is not a choice, he is an imposition. Then Christ is serious—and the West is tired of seriousness. Too much seriousness ultimately becomes diseased; deep down it turns into pathology. So the West wants to get up from seriousness. The cross is a very serious symbol. Jesus hanging on the cross is a very grave image. The West is frightened: remove the cross, bring the flute. And if you search the world for a symbol opposed to the cross, what will you find other than the flute! Therefore Krishna’s appeal and the possibility of coming near to Krishna will increase daily in the mind of the West.

There are other reasons too. Only an affluent society can come close to Krishna; only a prosperous society can do so. The leisure to play the flute cannot exist in a poor, destitute society. When Krishna was born, by the standards of those days his society was quite prosperous. There was plenty to eat and drink. Pots of milk and curd could be broken. Pots of milk and curd could be smashed in the streets. By the standard of living of those days it was a prosperous—most prosperous—society. People were happy; there was plenty to eat and drink, plenty to wear. One man could work and the whole family could play the flute. In that affluent moment, Krishna’s appeal arose.

The West is now again becoming affluent by today’s standards. Perhaps in India we will still have to wait a long time for Krishna. For now, Krishna cannot sink very deep into the Indian mind. A poor, destitute society does not think of playing the flute; for it, Christ seems appropriate. For one who himself hangs on the cross every day, Christ will seem right. Therefore a very unlikely event is taking place: in India Christ’s influence is increasing daily, and in the West Christ’s influence is decreasing. To think that missionaries are simply deluding people and making them Christians is not enough. The symbol of Jesus comes very close to the poor, suffering mind of India. A missionary cannot seduce unless the symbol itself is drawing near. If he can seduce, it is only because the symbol is approaching. Now Krishna’s golden image and Rama’s statues standing in splendor strike the poor Indian mind as very alien. The day is not far when the poor of India will not only rise against the rich, but also turn upon Krishna and Rama. There will not be much difficulty in this, because these golden idols cannot endure. But the figure of Christ hanging on the cross comes very near to the mind of the poor. There are great possibilities of India becoming Christian, just as there are possibilities of the West drawing near to Krishna.

In the Western mind the cross has lost its meaning. There is no pain, no suffering—those days are gone. The truth is that there is now only one suffering: there is so much affluence—what to do with it! Everything is there; now what to do with it! Naturally, a dancing symbol, a singing symbol, a symbol that celebrates will come close to the West. And therefore, if the mind of the West fills with Krishna’s melody, it is no surprise.

No, I am not saying that in those days there were no poor people, nor am I saying that today there are no poor in the West. I am not saying that. If you look, you will certainly find poor people in the West; the poor do exist. What I am saying is that the society is not poor. There were poor then too—Sudama existed then as well—but the society as a whole was not poor. The poverty of a society is one thing; finding a poor individual is another.

Today we can call Indian society poor, though you will also find a Birla. But because of a Birla, Indian society cannot be called rich. Likewise, because of Sudama, the society of Krishna’s time cannot be called poor. In a society as poor as India’s, of course you will find a rich man; and in a wealthy society like America’s, you will still find a poor man. That is not the point. The point is whether the majority—the very structure of society—is prosperous. In those days, the amenities of life were available to the maximum number of people. Today, in America, whatever facilities life offers are available to the maximum number of people.

Celebration can enter a prosperous society; it cannot enter a poor one. In a poor society celebration slowly bids farewell—or even celebration turns into a kind of work. A poor society celebrates Diwali, but does so on borrowed money. It plays Holi, but saves last year’s old clothes for it. On the day of Holi it comes out wearing torn, mended clothes: “If we must play Holi, we can play it in old clothes.” Then better not play at all. The very meaning of Holi is that you have enough clothing that it can be drenched in color. So a poor person will still play Holi, but he is merely hauling along an old shell. Otherwise, on Holi people used to come out in their best clothes—that was the point: “We have such fine clothes—go ahead, pour color!” But we even deceive the one who is to throw color: the clothes are old, stitched up, washed up. We are deceiving the color-thrower as well. What did throwing color mean? Those who first played that game must have had more clothes than they needed; otherwise you can’t play it. We too play, but our play is only the carrying of a dead custom. That is why the heart hurts. On Holi, if somebody splashes color on your clothes, the heart should be happy that someone considered you worthy of color—but it hurts. It will hurt, because clothes have become expensive; they are no longer easy to replace.

Yes, in the West Holi can be played. Krishna’s dance is already underway; if not today, tomorrow Holi will enter the West—you can declare it. The West will play Holi. They have clothes, they have color, they have time, leisure; now they can play. And in their Holi there will be a joy, a festivity, which is no longer possible in ours.

By prosperity I mean that, on the whole, Western society has become affluent. And when the whole society is affluent, then even the poor of that society are better off than the “rich” of a poor society. That is, today even the poorest American has less of a clutch on money than the most prosperous Indian. The richest Indian’s grip on money is so tight—has to be—because the society around him is impoverished. If he does not hold on hard, tomorrow he too will be destitute.

I heard of an incident. A beggar—cheerful, healthy, sturdy—was asking for alms at a door. The housewife gave generously. Then, looking closely at him—healthy, handsome—she asked, “You don’t look as if you were born in a poor home. How did you become poor?” He said, “In the same way you will. As easily as you gave just now, I kept giving—and it won’t be long before you’re on the street.”

When society all around is poor, a tight grasping toward money arises. The richest man clutches money. When society is affluent, even the poorest can let go of money—because there is no fear, no insecurity; tomorrow it can come again.

I said it in that sense. And in that sense, too, consider the second part of your question. In the West, through people like Allen Ginsberg, a breakthrough, a leap, is coming. All these people—whether existentialists, or the Beatles, or beatniks, hippies, yippies, of any kind—are irrationalists; they are anti-intellectualists. No Western intellectual, as yet, is influenced by these things.

There are reasons for this. This irrationalist generation in the West is born of the previous generation’s excessive rationalism; it is a reaction to it. In truth, a society produces irrationalists only when rationalism reaches its peak—otherwise they do not arise. Mystery begins only when logic begins to suffocate you. Talk of the divine begins only when matter sits on your chest like a stone. And remember: Ginsberg, or Sartre, or Camus, or anyone—where they wander and get lost in the absurd, the atarkya, the unreason—don’t think they are like our rustic anti-intellectuals. In their very irrationality they are profoundly intellectual. Their going beyond reason is not that of the devotee; it is like that of Chaitanya: the inconceivable of one who has thought and thought, tired himself out, and found it useless. So if Ginsberg’s statements or poetry are absurd, atarkya, beyond reason, anti-intellectual, even in that anti-intellectualism there is a system, an order.

Nietzsche said somewhere, “I am mad, but my madness has its own logic.” I am not mad the way the mad are; my madness has a reason, a system.

This anti-intellectualism is deliberate, conscious, willful. It carries its own insistence. In it there is a clear refutation of rationalism. And when anti-intellectualism refutes and opposes, it certainly does not do so with arguments—if it did, it would itself become rationalism. No, it does so through an atarkya way of living.

Ginsberg was reading a poem at a small poets’ gathering. The poem was meaningless; there was no connection between one line and the next. If there was any connection it was only this: it was all coming from the same man. Otherwise there was no coherence. The symbols were outrageous, with no relation to tradition.

This is a great audacity. There is no greater audacity than to appear incoherent. Only one who has, deep in his being, a sense of inner coherence can afford such incoherence. He knows: I am coherent within; let me make statements as incoherent as I like, it will not matter—my inner consistency is safe. Those whose inner coherence is not soul-deep will weigh every statement, every sentence, for fear that if two statements turn out incoherent, their inner incoherence will be exposed. Only one who is utterly consistent within can afford to be inconsistent.

So Ginsberg was reciting a very incoherent poem—a great audacity. A man stood up and said, “You seem very audacious. But what will poetry do? Show some courage by an act, a deed!” Ginsberg took off all his clothes and stood there naked. He said, “This is the last stanza of my poem.” He turned to that man and said, “Please, you too stand here naked.” The man said, “How can I do that? How can I?” The hall was stunned. No one had imagined that a poem could end like this, that such a final stanza was possible. People asked, “Ginsberg, why did you do this?” He said, “We don’t do things by thinking—they happen. It just happened! I felt, what else now? The man was asking, ‘Do something!’ What could I do here? What courage could I show? Where could I end the poem?”

It was spontaneous—not calculated. But it was atarkya; it had nothing to do with poetry. No Kalidasa, no Bhavabhuti, no Rabindranath could do this. They are poets bound to tradition. We cannot even conceive of Kalidasa doing this, or Bhavabhuti, or Rabindranath. It cannot be thought. And yet this man could do it. Why? He is saying: How long will you live by thinking and thinking? How long will syllogism be your life? How long will you add two and two and keep living? Drop the ledgers, drop the accounting—and live. And what will that living be like?

Therefore, people like Ginsberg are not, for me, village bumpkins or rustic devotees. They are the last link in a very solid, deep, intellectual tradition. And when an intellectual tradition dies, when it reaches its limit, those who deny it arise. I hold Krishna too to be the last link in a very great intellectual tradition. India has touched the pinnacle of intellect. We have skinned words; we have tried to split hairs. We have literature that cannot be translated into any language in the world, because no other language has such fine distinctions. We have words that fill a page—because we add so many qualifiers, so many conditions, so many subtleties, that a single word spreads across a page. Krishna is the final edge of an extremely intellectual tradition—where we have thought the Vedas, the Upanishads, where we have thought Patanjali, Kapila, Kanada, from Brihaspati onward—we have thought everything, and thinking and thinking we have become utterly tired. At the last link of that chain, this man Krishna appears and says: Enough thinking; now let us live. Let us now live—enough of thinking! Enough has been thought; when will we live?

Let me say another thing in this context: Chaitanya appears in Bengal at just such a time. In Bengal, with Navya Nyaya, humanity touched the ultimate links of reasoning. The village where Chaitanya was born—Navadwip—was among India’s foremost centers of logic. It was the Kashi of logicians. The logic of the whole of India was being born there; Navya Nyaya arose there. We scaled new heights of logic there—heights the West has yet to touch. The West’s logic is still old, not “navya.” Aristotle is still the logician for the West. In Navadwip we went beyond Aristotle; we took logic to its final limits. It was enough to say, “This pundit comes from Navadwip”—no one argued with him then; to argue was pointless. He carried a certificate of victory.

In that Navadwip, Chaitanya was born. He himself was such a logician that he defeated the great logicians there. Logicians from all over India came to win in Navadwip—and whoever won there, the trumpet of his fame resounded across the land: there was no greater intellect! To return victorious from Navadwip was almost impossible; people came to win and stayed on as disciples. There was not just one logician; logic was in every home. Defeat one, another stood up; defeat the second, a third stood up—steps upon steps. To conquer all of Navadwip was impossible. In that Navadwip, Chaitanya defeated everyone; he planted his flag—no one could defeat him in logic. And one day this very Chaitanya took cymbals and hand-bells into the street and began to dance, saying, “All is achintya—inconceivable.” Then his words carry great meaning. He belongs to the very last tradition of logic. After the most intense, refined reflection, inquiry, analysis, subtle understanding, he says, “We are ready to be unknowing. We no longer wish to be knowledgeable. We drop our cleverness and choose unknowing. Now we will dance in unknowing. We will no longer argue. We will not seek truth through argument—we will live it.” At the last link of logic, living begins.

Words are not truth. Truth is available only in the wordless. And even if you want to express truth, it cannot be done through words. Truth expresses only in the wordless; it reveals itself only in silence. Silence is the eloquence of truth; silence is the voice of truth. This is what I said in the morning.

The question arises: if this is so, how can you also say that a word can become a seed, a support for practice?

There is no contradiction; they are about different things. I said in the morning that words are not truth. But those who are surrounded by untruth have to use the support of the untrue to reach the true. Either take a jump—leap straight from words into silence. If you don’t have the courage to jump, then drop words gradually. The meaning of a seed-word is: drop all words, hold only one. Drop the many, hold to one. If you don’t have the courage to drop everything at once, then drop all and keep one; and finally that one too has to be dropped. The seed-word does not take you to truth; it only brings you to the temple door. As shoes must be left outside the temple, so too that seed-word must be left outside. It does not go in with you. Even that much duality cannot be carried in; that much noise is a hindrance. All words are obstacles; the seed-word too, ultimately, is an obstacle.

That is why those who have spoken of the seed-word have also said: the moment will come when even the seed-word is lost—then know you are right. Chant the name, but arrive at the ajapa, the non-chanting. Begin with japa and reach ajapa. A moment will come when the japa drops and you jump into the ajapa. The whole matter is just this: either drop first, or drop at the end—but somewhere it must be dropped. Those who have the courage to drop first should drop first. Those who do not, let them drop the many words and hold onto one—and then drop that one at the end.

I insist on the jump; therefore in practice I suggest avoiding the seed-word as far as possible. You will have to be disentangled from it later anyway. What happened with Ramakrishna will make it clear.

Ramakrishna had practiced by remembering the Mother, taking the divine as the form of the Mother. He came to the place where the last step of the temple was reached—he arrived with the Mother. But beyond that step one can enter only alone. The Mother cannot be taken along. That was a symbol, a word, a form, a wave; before entering the ocean it had to be left. Ramakrishna was in great difficulty. The greatest difficulty in Ramakrishna’s life came the day the question arose of leaving the Mother. The one he had tended with such love, watered with so many tears, danced with in ecstasy, invoked and enshrined, carried in every breath and heartbeat—now at the last moment he is told: let it go!

He learned this letting-go from an advaitin, a nondualist, named Totapuri. Totapuri said to him, ‘Drop this Mother!’ For Totapuri, the symbol has no meaning. He said, ‘Drop the Mother! This won’t do. You can go only alone.’ Ramakrishna would close his eyes, then open them again: ‘No, this cannot be. How can I drop her? I can drop myself, but not the Mother.’ Totapuri said, ‘Then keep trying—because if you drop yourself, you will remain outside the temple and the Mother will go in; what use will that be to you? It is you who must go into the ocean of truth—so let go! This duality will not work; the two cannot go in. The lane of love is very narrow, the lane of truth is very narrow; in the end only one can remain. Let go!’ But Ramakrishna could not. For three days Totapuri worked on him. Then Totapuri said, ‘Shall I go?’ Ramakrishna said, ‘Work with me once more, for I ache for that which remains unknown; but the symbols I have loved have become bound within me very strongly.’

So Totapuri brought a shard of glass. Ramakrishna sat with eyes closed. Totapuri said, ‘I will cut the skin on your forehead where the ajna chakra is with this glass. When the blood begins to flow and you feel the cutting, then inside, raise a sword and cut the Mother into two.’ Ramakrishna said, ‘The Mother? Into two? And a sword? What are you saying! I can do it to myself, but how can I raise a sword against the Mother? And where will I bring a sword from in there?’ Totapuri said, ‘You are mad! The Mother who never was—you brought her; then bring a sword that never is. When such a great untruth, such a great untruth you have made into truth—what is nowhere you have made embodied—then now embody one more thing, a sword. What will it take? You are skilled; the sword will also appear. A false sword will do the job.’

Ramakrishna sat with eyes closed. Totapuri had said he would leave that day—he could not get involved in such childish games; he was one of those who had already leapt. Ramakrishna was stuck on the last step. Totapuri scolded, ‘What childishness! Stop it! Aren’t you ashamed!’ Then he took the glass and cut Ramakrishna’s forehead. As he cut the forehead, Ramakrishna gathered courage within and with the sword cut the Mother into two. The image fell; Ramakrishna dissolved into supreme samadhi. When he rose and returned, he said, ‘The last barrier has fallen—the Last Barrier!’

So those words, those mantras, those seeds—they will all become the last barrier. Whoever walks with them will one day have to raise the sword and break them too. Then it hurts a lot. That is why I try, as far as possible, not to let them take root; otherwise later there will be one more trouble for me. Better to settle that matter at the very beginning.

This Om is a very wondrous word. It is an extraordinary word—extraordinary because it is a word without meaning. All words have meanings; this word has none. Therefore Om cannot be translated into any language of the world; there is no way. If there were a meaning, it could be translated, because another word carrying that meaning would be found in any language. But Om cannot be translated, because it is meaning-less. All words have meanings; this has no meaning.

Those who created this sound discovered a link between the word and the wordless. Word is meaningful. The wordless is neither meaning nor non-meaning; it is beyond. Om was made into a bridge between the two. It is formed by combining the three primal sounds of speech—A, U, M. All word-sounds are an expansion of A-U-M. These three were joined to make Om. Therefore Om was not even written like a word; it was made pictorial—a figure—so that even the notion that it is a word would not remain. It is an image. And it stands where words end and the wordless begins. It is a boundary-stone. Om stands at that place: beyond it there are no words; on this side, words. It is the link in-between. That is why Krishna says that if you can hold me in the form of Om—in the form of Om meaning: meaning-less, beyond words, not found in any lexicon—if in such a “word” you can think of me at the final moment, you will attain me. Because it is the word of the frontier. At the last hour, if one can reach this frontier, the jump happens.

Into this sound Om, the Indian mind has poured a great deal. It has given it a very vast meaning—so vast that now it has no meaning. It has been expanded so much that it has no boundary left.

But the point is not the chanting of Om; the point is the experience of Om. And if you descend into meditation, when all words are lost, then the sound of Om begins to happen within you. You will not have to do it. If it has to be done, there can be a deception—that it is you who are doing it.

That is why I have made no place for Om in meditation. If we produce the sound of Om from our side, it will likely be merely a word-sound. There is another sound of Om, which remains when all our words are lost. It should be called the sound of cosmic silence. When everything is left behind, everything dissolves—all words, all intellect, all thoughts—then a vibration of sound remains, which in this land has been interpreted as Om.

It could be interpreted otherwise as well. That is our interpretation. Sitting in a train, if you wish, you can interpret the sound of the wheels in many ways. When the wheel makes noise, it is not making any sound for you, it is not telling you anything, but you can find whatever you want in it. It will be your finding. When the vast void arises, the vast void has its own sound, its own music—the sound of cosmic silence. When all becomes empty, it has its own sound. The name of that sound is anahata. It is not produced by any cause.

When we clap, that is ahata nada—sound born of two things striking. Beat a drum—ahata nada. When we speak, it is the ahata sound of lips and tongue. When all this ceases, when even two do not remain and only one remains, then anahata nada happens. Without any blow, without two colliding, there is sound; that sound, the anahata, has been interpreted by the sages of this country as Om.

Sages of other lands have also interpreted it, and their interpretations are almost like Om. For example, Christians say “amen.” That is an interpretation of “omeen”—an interpretation of Om. Muslims too say “ameen.” If an Upanishad is written, at the end the rishi will write: Om shantih shantih shantih. A Muslim will recite an ayat or write scripture, and at the end he will write: ameen, ameen, ameen. Ask him, what is the meaning of ameen? Ameen is meaning-less. It is his interpretation of that same cosmic sound; it is an interpretation of Om. Christians also use amen.

In English there are some words: omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent. They are rather strange words. English philology has no formula for their derivation. They are all made from Om. Omniscient means one who has seen the Om—it’s a very tricky affair; hence English philologists get into difficulty over what it means. Omniscient: one who has seen the Om. Omnipresent—one who has become present in Om, who has become one with Om. Omnipotent—one who has received as much energy as Om has, who has become as powerful as Om. Om has been caught in many, many forms of interpretation. But the two great sources of world religions...

It is a very amusing thing! Jains will not accept anything of the Hindus, but they will not deny Om. Buddhists will not accept anything of the Hindus, but they will not deny Om. If there is one word common among Jain, Buddhist, and Hindu, it is Om. If there is one word common among Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, it is Om. Yes, their interpretations are omine, ameen; these call it Om. That is the difference we hear in the wheel of our cart. One cannot say for sure whether it is ameen or Om. It cannot be fixed; it could be ameen, it could be Om. But one thing is sure: both ameen and Om are interpretations of the same sound. That sound is ultimate. When we go beyond all words, one sound remains—the cosmic sound.

Zen fakirs tell their seekers: Go and find that place where the clap of one hand sounds. Now, the clap of one hand! This is the Zen way of speaking about the anahata; they have no idea of this word. They say: Find that place, that space, where the clap of one hand sounds. Where the clap of one hand sounds, there Om will remain. Wherever two hands clap, there will be words, there will be sounds.

Why have I, knowingly, given no place at all to Om in meditation? Knowingly I have not. Because if you pronounce Om, it will be a sound produced by you—it will be ahata nada. I wait for that Om which appears when you are utterly lost, which arises from within you. That will be a roar, an anahata, a cosmic sound. On that day, as Krishna says—and he says rightly—if you have understood, known, and lived Om, then in the last moment you will attain me. He is right. But it is not the Om uttered by you. If at the time of death you keep saying Om-Om with your lips, you will labor in vain. You could have died peacefully; instead it will become an unpeaceful death.

Om should come, it should appear, it should explode. That is how it happens.

Now let us sit for meditation. Let us see—let us journey toward that Om.

Do not talk, sit spaced apart... do not talk, sit spaced apart. Sit with some distance between you. Those who are standing and watching, please step outside; stand on the road, do not stand in the compound here. You people go outside. Sit a little apart so that if someone falls or lies down, they do not fall on you... there is plenty of space behind; do not be miserly. Move a little farther away. Otherwise someone will fall; that much is enough to create disturbance, and many will fall, so move away. And don’t think the other will move—the other never moves. If moving is needed, you yourself move.

To the friends who are standing to watch, a request: stand absolutely quietly and watch; do not talk, so that we are not disturbed.

Understand two or three points. We will do the experiment sitting; the results will be of the same kind. For ten minutes we will keep taking deep breaths. After ten minutes, the body will start swaying while sitting—let it sway, help it sway. Sounds will start coming, crying will start—let it come out. Then, for the next ten minutes, “Who am I?”—the process will remain the same; only you will do it sitting—that is the only difference. In the meantime if anyone falls, there is no need to worry—let them fall.

No one in the compound will keep their eyes open. Fold both hands, take a resolve!
With the Lord as witness, I resolve that I will put my whole energy into the meditation.
With the Lord as witness, I resolve that I will put my whole energy into the meditation.
With the Lord as witness, I resolve that I will put my whole energy into the meditation.
Keep the memory of your resolve; the Lord surely keeps the memory of your resolve.

Now for ten minutes, while sitting, take intense breaths. In this, energy will rise very strongly—more strongly than even when standing... Energy will rise; give the shock of breath... electricity will start running inside the body... electricity will begin to be produced within the body... breathe strongly... if the body begins to tremble, let it tremble; if it starts swaying, let it sway; if it starts shaking, let it shake...

Energy is awakening; let it awaken; breathe strongly; let the energy awaken...
Very good! Very good! Take care of yourselves; let no one be left behind... Energy is awakening; let it awaken... Whatever the body does while sitting, let it do... deep breathing, deep breathing, deep breathing, deep breathing... Energy is awakening; cooperate; take deep breaths, take deep breaths, take deep breaths...
Deep breathing... very good, very good... The energy of many friends is awakening; let it open completely... take deep breaths; give the blow; give the blow; be filled with bliss; be filled with bliss; take deep breaths; take deep breaths; be filled with bliss; take deep breaths; take deep breaths...
The body has become electrified—let it be so; you keep taking deep breaths, with bliss, with bliss; filled with perfect bliss, take deep breaths...
Strongly, strongly; with bliss, with bliss; with full bliss, take deep breaths; do not lag behind; put your whole strength into it; then we will enter the second stage; four minutes remain; put your full strength into it...
Very good! Very good! The right speed is coming—let it come, let it come, let it come. Sometimes we miss by just a little... Put in the strength, the full strength; with the feeling of bliss, put in full strength...
Three minutes remain... Move, move, move; strongly; travel within; deep breathing. Energy will begin to awaken; the body will no longer seem your own; it will start swaying; while sitting it will start dancing; it will sway; it will tremble. Let it tremble; let it dance while sitting; you take deep breaths, take deep breaths... Very good; sway, sway; tremble... take deep breaths...
Very good, the movement is coming very well; with bliss, with bliss. Two minutes remain; deep breathing, deep breathing, deep breathing, deep breathing... When I say one, two, three, then put in your full strength... deep breathing, deep breathing; be filled with bliss; let the body sway; let it sway; let it dance while sitting; let it tremble...
One—see that no one is left behind. Two... three... put in your full strength; then we will enter the second stage. Energy has awakened; put in full strength; whoever puts in full strength will move quickly into the second...
Very good! Very good! Very good! Strongly, strongly, strongly...

Now enter the second stage; let the body do whatever it has to do. If it has to scream, let it scream; if it has to cry, let it cry; if it has to sway, let it sway; if it has to laugh, let it laugh. Be filled with bliss, and cooperate with what the body is doing. Laugh, scream, cry, sway...
Cry loudly, laugh, scream, be delighted. Energy has awakened; laugh with an open heart...
Be filled loudly with bliss, be filled loudly with bliss; laugh, scream; shout loudly; let whatever is happening to the body happen...
Cooperate; be filled with bliss; sway; dance while sitting; tremble; shout; laugh; cry. Do not hold back; do it loudly; do not control...
Very good! Very good! Loudly, loudly, loudly...
Let your heart fill with bliss; laugh—laugh with all your heart. Loudly, loudly; five minutes remain; put in your full strength. Shout with all your heart; let the whole valley resound...
Four minutes remain; put in your whole energy; laugh; giggle; cry; shout; be filled with bliss; let the body do what it is doing... loudly, loudly; four minutes remain; put in your full strength; let the body tremble; let it sway; let it dance; let what is happening happen...
Three minutes remain; put in your full strength; then we will enter the third stage...
Two minutes remain; put in your full strength; then we will enter the third stage. Loudly—let the whole valley begin to echo. Shout; shout; shout with bliss. Shout with bliss; laugh; shout with bliss...
When I say one, two, three, then put in your full energy. One—put in your full energy... two—put in your full energy; empty yourself completely... three—put in your full energy... shout; laugh; loudly; once, put in your whole strength...

Now enter the third stage. Within, ask: Who am I? Keep swaying; keep trembling; keep asking: Who am I? Who am I? Ask within: Who am I? Who am I? Keep swaying, keep swaying; keep trembling; keep dancing; ask: Who am I? Do not worry if the voice comes out; ask loudly: Who am I?...
Keep dancing, keep dancing; ask: Who am I? Ask with bliss: Who am I? Ask with complete bliss: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? In ten minutes we have to tire the mind completely. If it must be asked loudly, ask loudly: Who am I?...
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Ask, ask; not softly—ask with power: Who am I? Ask with bliss: Who am I?... Sway; dance; tremble; ask loudly: Who am I?...
Ask, ask; let the voice go out as well—do not worry. Ask: Who am I? Who am I?... We have to tire it out. Ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?... Who am I? Who am I? Ask, ask; sway; dance; tremble; ask: Who am I? The mind must be tired—utterly tired. Ask: Who am I?...
Loudly, loudly; put in strength; ask God: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?...
Who am I? Who am I? Five minutes remain; put in your full energy; then we will enter the final stage. Tire it out—utterly tire it out; shout loudly: Who am I? Shout—shout loudly: Who am I? Shout—shout loudly: Who am I?...
Four minutes remain; ask, ask, ask; do not lag behind... Very good; ask: Who am I? Shout loudly; ask: Who am I?... Very good! Very good! Three minutes remain; put in your full strength; ask with bliss: Who am I? Who am I? Jump in totally; ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?...
Two minutes remain; now put in your full energy. Ask loudly: Who am I?...
Who am I? One—put in your full strength. Two—Who am I? Put in your full strength. Three—put in your full strength. Who am I? Ask loudly; for a few seconds put in your full strength. Become absolutely mad. Ask loudly: Who am I? Loudly; for a few seconds, put in your full strength. Scream; shout loudly: Who am I?... Loudly, loudly, loudly...

That’s it—now enter the last stage; become silent now; now drop everything. Drop the asking; drop the asking. Drop the trembling; drop the deep breathing. Let everyone remain just as they are—wherever, however. If someone has fallen, let them lie; if someone is sitting, let them sit—as they are, let them be. For ten minutes, enter perfect silence. As a drop dissolves into the ocean, dissolve like that. Everything has become nothing; all is silence. As if we have died...

For ten minutes, be utterly lost—become no one. In this not-being alone is discovered that which is. All around, only That is; if only we become empty, it enters within us. As if we are erased, as if we are finished. Only the Divine remains; we have ended...
Only light, light remains; we have ended. Only bliss, bliss remains; we have ended. See—within, light upon light, infinite light. See—rain of bliss is showering within. Every pore, every hair is filled with bliss and thrill. Other than the Divine, there is no one. Other than the Divine, there is no one—He alone is all around; He is outside, He is inside. Recognize; remember; recognize; remember...
Remember, remember—He is outside, He is inside; the wall has fallen that used to separate outside and inside. All has become one; the drop has dissolved in the ocean... The drop fell into the ocean, dissolved, ended. Only the Divine remains. Only the Divine remains, only the Divine remains. He alone is outside, He alone is inside, He alone is everywhere. Recognize, recognize; remember, recognize...
He alone is, He alone is, He alone is—remember. The wall in between has fallen; thus we have become one with Him, and He has become one with us. Only bliss, bliss; only nectar, nectar; only light, light remains...
Sink, sink; be lost, be lost; remember—He alone is. Let go of yourself; dissolve. Only bliss, only light, only the Divine remains. Only light remains. Bliss has filled every pore. Recognize; remember, remember...
Remember, remember, remember; recognize... This is the moment when vision can happen. This is the moment when union can happen. This is the moment when entry into His temple can happen. We are standing at the door—recognize—only light, only bliss, only peace remains. Only the Divine is; all around He alone is—in the trees, in the sky, in the winds—outside and inside; other than Him there is no one. Remember, remember...

Now fold both hands and give thanks to Him; His grace is infinite. Fold both hands; bow your head; give thanks to Him; surrender at His unknown feet. Fold both hands; bow your head; place your head at His feet. His grace is immeasurable. Bathe in His grace. Fold both hands; bow your head; give thanks. The Lord’s grace is infinite. The Lord’s grace is infinite. The Lord’s grace is infinite...
The Lord’s grace is infinite. The Lord’s grace is infinite. The Lord’s grace is infinite...
His grace is infinite. His grace is infinite. His grace is infinite. Now release both hands. Slowly open your eyes; return attentively. Those who cannot open the eyes, place both hands over the eyes. Those who cannot get up, take two or four deep breaths and slowly get up.
Return attentively. Take two or four deep breaths. If you cannot get up, take two or four deep breaths, then slowly get up. If the eyes do not open, place both hands over the eyes and open the eyes. Return attentively.
Our meditation sitting is complete.