I would like to begin today’s talk with a small story.
One night I was a guest at an inn. It was overcrowded, filled to the brim with guests. And past midnight, another new guest arrived for whom there was simply no place. Such guests always appear in inns—no place for them, and yet a place must be found.
They brought that new guest into the same little room where I was staying. The room was small, and now too many of us. But I was amazed to see: it was past midnight; that weary traveler didn’t even remove his turban, didn’t take off his shoes; he lay down on the bed and began to toss and turn. No sleep looked likely to come to him, so I asked, “Friend, wouldn’t it be sensible to take off your clothes, remove your turban and shoes, so that you could sleep in comfort?”
The man said, “I too think I should remove my clothes. But there is a danger. The danger is: by nature I am very forgetful. My clothes help me remember that I am me. If I take them off, how will I decide in the morning who I am and who you are?”
His difficulty was absolutely real. If all our clothes were taken off, who could recognize whom? We recognize one another by our clothes. That is why there is such a mad race to accumulate more and more clothes.
I said, “What you say is exactly true.” And a story came to my mind.
A great poet, very poor, was invited by a king for a meal at the palace. His friends advised, “Don’t go in these clothes. It is difficult even to meet the king—his gatekeepers will send you back. These clothes are not worthy of any recognition.” But the poet, lost in his poetry, went. And what had to happen, happened. The gatekeepers turned him away. He pleaded, “Do you know who I am? Let me in.” They said, “Oh, stop! Lunatics like you come here every day to bother us. Be off!”
He returned. His friends said, “We told you so.”
The next day he went wearing borrowed clothes. The same gatekeepers who had turned him away yesterday touched his feet and said, “Welcome, sir, please come in. From where have you graced us?” The king took him into the dining hall and asked, “Yesterday I waited for you—you didn’t come?” The poet said nothing; he only smiled.
Food was served. The poet lifted the platter and addressed his clothes, “O my coat, please eat. O my turban, please partake!”
The king said, “Are you in your senses? Have you gone mad composing poetry? As often happens, poets lose their minds. Or the mad start composing poetry. Is this what has happened?”
The poet replied, “No. I had come yesterday as well, but these clothes were not with me; I was turned back from the door. These very clothes have brought me in today. It would be discourteous not to honor them first.”
So I said to that guest, “You are right. In the world, everyone is recognized by clothes. The world is a bazaar of clothes; that is how we recognize one another. And you are also right: others recognize us by our clothes—and we too recognize ourselves by our clothes. If we stood utterly naked, even we would find it difficult to know who we are. We know ourselves only through others. Does anyone ever know himself directly? We look at ourselves through other people’s eyes. Who looks with his own eyes? Therefore, if there are no clothes, and others cannot recognize you, you are right—you would not be able to recognize yourself either.”
He said, “This is exactly why I cannot sleep. If the room were mine alone, I would undress and sleep. But if I take my clothes off now, how will it be decided in the morning who I am and who you are?”
I said, “Friend, there is a trick. Before us some child who stayed in this room left behind a balloon and a doll.” I told him, “Let me tie this balloon to your foot and place this little doll beside you—so that your identity remains, so that your ‘who’ remains. In the morning you can put your clothes back on.”
I asked, “What is your name?”
He said, “My name? My name is Mulla Nasruddin.”
He took off his clothes. I tied the balloon to his foot and placed the doll near him. He felt assured and went to sleep.
When his snoring began, a thought arose in me. I got up, untied his balloon and tied it to my own foot, and I placed the doll on my bed. And the inevitable happened. Around four o’clock he screamed, “Look, what was bound to go wrong seems to have gone wrong!” He got up, shook me and said, “Trouble has arrived. Wake up!”
I asked, “What happened?”
He said, “The trouble is, the balloon is tied to your foot, the doll is on your bed—so if you are Mulla Nasruddin, who am I?”
As you laughed, I too laughed. But for that laughter I am still paying, even today. For when I laughed, he opened the door and ran outside shouting, “Who am I?” And then it became difficult for me to understand what to do. I ran after him, but I was a little late; I too was in bed, and by the time I dressed, he had gone far. When I came out, I heard a voice from under a bush—someone was asking, “Who am I?” I went there and asked the person, “Are you Mulla Nasruddin?” He said, “I don’t even know who I am—how can I tell you I am Mulla Nasruddin?” Ever since, whomever I see asking, “Who am I?” I ask him, “Are you Mulla Nasruddin?” And he says, “I don’t know who I am!”
So I am roaming about carrying Mulla Nasruddin’s clothes, hoping to return them if I ever find him and be rid of them. But there is no trace of that man. And whomever I look at carefully, he seems to be asking, “Who am I?” No one seems to know.
We laughed at that man—so did I. But later it became clear that he was the representative of all humanity, because no human being really knows who he is.
It makes no difference that you know your name or where your house is. All that concerns the garments. That is talk about clothes. Your name can be changed—but you remain the same. Your clothes can be changed, your house can be changed—but you remain the same. Your position can be snatched away, your wealth taken, you may become a beggar on the road—still you remain the same. You were a child, you became a youth, you grew old—everything changed, and yet you did not change.
Who is that which abides within, unchanged? Is there any recognition of it? Any remembrance of it?
No—there is no trace.
Man does not know what he is. And such a man searches for God—how will God be found? Such a man searches for truth—how will truth be found?
Before knowing God, it is necessary to know oneself. Before knowing truth, it is necessary to recognize oneself. Because if the nearest remains unknown, how will the farthest ever be known?
So before you go to a temple to seek God, before you wander through scriptures seeking truth, do not forget the person who is you. First—and foremost—become acquainted with the one who is you.
But no one is eager to know himself. Everyone wants to know others.
Knowing others is science. Knowing oneself is religion. Knowing others is science. Knowing oneself is religion. And the one who knows himself—astonishingly—knows others too. While the one who spends his time knowing others—more astonishingly still—does not even come to know others; slowly, the doors to self-knowing also close for him.
The first ray of knowing shines from the self, and slowly spreads to all. The first flame of knowing lights within, and its luminosity begins to be seen throughout all of life.
The first day I said: God is dead. God has died because no one is in search of knowing himself. God can be resurrected—if someone knows himself. For whomever knows himself, God is resurrected. For whomever does not know himself, God is dead—no matter how much he worships, no matter how many rituals and offerings he performs, no matter how many temples he builds, statues he makes—no matter what he does. If he has left undone only one thing—knowing himself—then let him know well that no relation with the Divine will ever be possible.
The first basic, foundational condition for relation with the Divine is: become related to yourself.
How can one become related to oneself? That is what I will speak on today.
Because that is the key, the bridge, the path, the door to becoming related with the Divine. And then the God who is revealed is not the God manufactured by man’s imagination, but That which is—simply That. Not the Hindu’s God, not the Muslim’s, not the Jain’s, not the Christian’s—just God. Then no form, no name. No beginning, no end. No boundary at all.
How will such truth—such truth that surrounds us on every side—become visible?
And if, without knowing ourselves, we begin a race to see Him, that race is mistaken from the very start. Whatever we come to know in that way will only deepen and enlarge our ignorance.
A blind man was a guest at a friend’s house. In welcome, the friend prepared many sweets. The blind man liked one and asked, “What is this?” It was made of milk. His friends said, “It’s a sweet made from milk.”
The blind man said, “Would you be kind enough to tell me something about milk—what is this ‘milk’ like?”
His friends did what so-called knowers have always done. They began to explain. One friend said, “Milk is white—pure white—like the feathers of an egret.”
The blind man said, “Are you making fun of me? I do not even understand milk, and you speak of an egret and its white feathers. Now another difficulty has arisen. Will you explain what an egret is, and its white feathers? If I first understand an egret and whiteness, then perhaps I can understand milk!”
The first problem remained; a second question stood up—what are the white feathers of an egret? What is an egret like?
The friends were embarrassed. One friend devised a trick. He raised his arm, took the blind man’s hand and ran it along his bent arm, and said, “Just as my arm is bent, so the egret’s long neck is bent.” The blind man ran his hand along the bent arm. He stood up and began to dance, “I have understood! Milk is like a bent arm! I have understood—milk is like a bent arm.”
His friends were in great distress. Better if they had not tried to explain. It would have been better to know that they did not know—than to know this dangerous nonsense: that milk is like a bent arm!
When scriptures fall into the hands of those who have not opened their own eyes, this is what happens; when doctrines fall into such hands, this is their fate. “What is God like?” As milk is like a bent arm, in just such a way God is grasped by them.
Such a false God has died! I am talking to you about this of late.
And it is good that he has died. Let me give you a new message born of his death: he died because your eyes are closed. We are blind. Therefore God has had to die. Our blindness has murdered Him.
Are we willing to open our eyes? Those who love life and truth—if they are willing to open their eyes, the light of God can shine throughout existence.
How will those eyes open? How will we open the doors of the self that are shut? A few sutras I will share with you this evening.
The first sutra: as I said—no knowledge, but un-knowing. A state of not knowing. A condition of the mind in which we clearly know: “I know nothing. I do not know anything at all.” This clear acceptance of innocence, of ignorance, is the first sutra.
Knowledge will have to be dropped, if one truly wants to attain right and true knowing. Knowledge will have to be dropped. The human mind is burdened under knowledge—like rocks and mountains on the chest. We all appear as if we know everything—when in fact we know nothing. A husband does not even know his wife. A father does not even know his son. All this is so mysterious. The stone at your threshold—you do not know it. The flowers blooming in your courtyard—you do not know them. We know nothing. Life is so unknown, so mysterious, so full of wonder. But our ego says we know everything. The father’s ego says, “You are my son; I know you very well.”
Buddha returned to his village after twelve years. The whole village came to receive him. His father came too. But the father still carried the anger of those twelve years: “The boy ran away.” He went to Buddha straightaway and said, “Listen, I am your father—and even now I can forgive you. Return home. Ask forgiveness for your mistake.”
What did Buddha say? “You are making the mistake. That you know me—you err in saying so. Whether you even know yourself is doubtful; how then will you know me? Because I am your son, do you know me? You are also mistaken there. I may have been born through you—but I was not born from you. You were a pathway for me to come into this world—but not my maker. You were a passage, no more.”
“Just now I came through a crossroads. If, when I return, that crossroads stops me and says, ‘Wait! I know you well—you passed by me just a little while ago!’—a father saying to his child, ‘I know you well,’ is the same mistake.” The father was a crossroads through which the child passed into the world. But knowing—and in the illusion of knowing—the mystery that is life remained unknown.
We all appear as if we know everything. The illusion of knowing must fall—only then is mystery born in life. Only then do the eyes begin to open toward the unknown and the unknowable.
He who does not free himself from the shore of the known—his voyage into the ocean of the unknown is not for him. And God is utterly unknown. And we ourselves are utterly unknown. We do not know what is within us. If we cling to what we know, then this journey into the unknown will not be possible.
Let me tell a small incident to make my point clear.
One night in a village—what happens every night in every village—some young men went into a tavern, drank, and lost their senses. Drunk, they came out. The full moon was in the sky. They said, “What a beautiful night! Come, let us go to the lake.”
They went to the lake, boarded a boat, took up the oars and began their voyage. The night passed. All night they rowed and rowed and rowed. When cool breezes began to blow and their intoxication thinned, one of them said, “Who knows how far we have come, who knows in which direction. It is near dawn—let us find out where we have reached and return. The villagers must be awake.” Two of them stepped onto the shore, and cried out in amazement, “Don’t panic! Come down! We are standing where we were at night.” They were astonished. They had forgotten to unfasten the chains. The boat was tied to the post. They had rowed all night. All that effort was wasted. They labored much, but where they were, they remained.
Most people—when the cool breezes of death begin to blow and the intoxication of life wears off—find their boat tied to the shore. They are standing exactly where they began their journey. Why? Because they forgot to unchain themselves from the shore.
This shore is our knowledge—the things we know. Each of us is bound by what we know—by some scripture he has read: the Gita, the Koran, or something else; by something heard; by some experience had. He is bound by it.
Whoever binds himself to knowing is bound to the past—because knowledge is always of the past. It is gone. What you have known is already dead. It is over. To remain bound to the dead—how will you journey into the future? How will you go ahead? Knowledge is always bygone. Whatever you have known—is gone.
And the Divine is the unknown, the unknowable. If we are bound to what is known, how will we ever know the unknown? Therefore, the one who drops the bundle of knowledge alone can journey into that ocean of the unknown which is of God—and of the self.
The first sutra: become free of knowledge.
But all of us are in search of knowledge. God forbid that you ever find it! If you do, you will be stuck right there—you will stop.
Those who become “knowers” are the ones who stop—and become dead. Have you ever seen anyone more dead than a pundit? As dead as that? Difficult—almost impossible. As pedantry increases in the world, so does deadness.
Why? Because they bind themselves with their knowing. That bondage no longer allows their consciousness to take flight into the infinite ocean, the vast sky, the Divine. Their feet are tied to the earth.
The courage to be free of the known; the courage to be free of knowledge—this alone makes a person religious. Courage to be free of knowledge!
The first sutra: break your chains from the shore of knowledge.
You will feel great panic. To leave wealth is quite easy—but to leave knowledge is very difficult. That is why even those who renounce wealth do not leave knowledge. They leave wealth—yet the books that wealth purchased, they tie into a bundle and carry with them. They do not leave knowledge.
A man becomes a sannyasi; he leaves house and door, wife and children—but he does not leave being a Hindu, or a Jain, or a Muslim. How astonishing that to this day a true sadhu has not yet been born on the earth! The sadhu is Hindu, the sadhu is Muslim, the sadhu is Christian. What madness is this? There should be only a sadhu on earth.
How have the names Hindu, Christian, Muslim stuck behind a sadhu? If such diseases cling to the irreligious, one can understand. But to see these diseases clinging to the sadhu is astonishing indeed. Knowledge—Hindu knowledge, Muslim knowledge, Jain knowledge—once grabbed, does not let go.
Why do we not want to leave it?
Because it is also an inner wealth. Money is outer wealth; knowledge is inner wealth. To leave outer wealth is not so difficult. The one who leaves inner wealth alone can be related to the Divine.
Christ said: Blessed are the poor. To whom did he say it? To those without even a loincloth? If only they are blessed, Christ spoke wrongly. It would mean he supports poverty and destitution.
No—Christ said: poor in spirit. Blessed are those who are poor in spirit.
What does it mean? Poor in spirit means: those who have thrown away the wealth of knowledge and said, “Within us there is no wealth of knowing. We know nothing. We are utterly ignorant.” Who have not bound themselves to the past—blessed are those who are poor in spirit.
Poverty of spirit means: those who have left the treasures of knowledge. Only such people—only those few—can know truth, can know the Divine.
So what preparations are there for leaving knowledge? Those who persuaded people to leave wealth have been proved wrong. Leaving wealth is not the great issue.
Wealth is outside. Even if you leave it, whatever you attain will be only outside. Knowledge feels inside. If you leave it, whatever you attain will be inside. And remember, in the world there are only two coins—money and knowledge. And only two kinds of people—those who gather money and those who gather knowledge.
A king lived in a palace by the sea. One evening he stood upon the terrace. Hundreds of ships were coming and going. He said to his vizier, “Do you see? Hundreds of ships come and go.”
The vizier said, “Earlier I too saw hundreds. For some days now I see only two ships.”
The king said, “Has your mind gone wrong? Two ships? Hundreds are coming and going!”
The vizier replied, “Perhaps my vision errs. But I still see only two—one is the ship of wealth, the other the ship of knowledge. And the whole journey of all ships is of these two alone. Either someone is going to seek wealth or someone is going to seek knowledge.”
Wealth satisfies the ego: “I am somebody. I have so much.” Identity is obtained—garments are obtained through wealth. Then we forget we do not know ourselves. “I have money; I am something.” Try nudging a wealthy man—he will say, “Do you know who I am?” But if his wealth is snatched away—and this happens every day—if he is no longer a minister, and becomes “former minister”—dead, finished—then he will not say, “Do you know who I am?” Rather, if you nudge him he will respond, “Did you get hurt?” But yesterday, if he had been a minister and you only passed by—no nudge even—if only the shadow of your body had touched him, he would have shouted, “Stop! Do you know who I am?”
Wealth, position, grandeur—they give a feeling that “I am somebody.” In the illusion of being “somebody,” the remembrance that “I do not know who I am” is lost. In the illusion of “something,” the question “Who am I?” is forgotten.
There is another pursuit: knowledge. The knower too becomes proud—“I am somebody.” And the knower is more conceited than the wealthy. He says, “These wealthy ones are entangled in outer possessions—materialists. We are spiritual; we are seekers of knowledge. Wealth is a petty thing.” But what is happening through this knowledge? The ego is being strengthened—“I am somebody.” Look into the eyes of the learned, wander around them—you will not find peace; you will find ego. Otherwise would the learned roam about for debates? Trying to defeat and humiliate one another?
Where there is the urge to defeat another, what is there except ego? Would the learned write scriptures full of refutations, condemnations, abuses? If you read the texts of these pundits, you will be astonished—every possible abuse is there. Whatever violence, hatred, and anger one human being can harbor toward another—all of it is there. What is this? These knowers have fought among themselves and made the world fight too; they have raised such walls that breaking them has become difficult. All these walls are walls of ego. Even if these knowers leave wealth, it makes no difference—ego is still gratified.
A sadhu once told me, “I kicked away millions of rupees.” He said it once, he said it twice, he said it thrice. I asked, “When did you kick them away?” He said, “Twenty or twenty-five years ago.” I said, “If you won’t be offended, I would like to say—the kick didn’t really land.” He asked, “Why?” I said, “Because a kick delivered twenty-five years ago—why is its memory still here? The kick did not land. Why do you keep recalling again and again, ‘I gave up millions’? When you had millions, there was the ego that ‘I have millions.’ When you abandoned them, from then on there is the ego that ‘I have abandoned millions.’”
Ego remains in its seat. Your renunciation made no difference. There is the ego of the wealthy; there is the ego of the renunciate. And the renunciate’s ego is more dangerous than the rich man’s—because it is subtler, almost invisible. The knower’s ego says, “I know.” This sense of “I know” is the subtlest inner wall. It will not allow union with the whole; it will sever. Ego is a breaking force—it breaks you off from all. You become an island—small and separate. Ego separates, therefore ego can never lead toward the Divine.
Ego can fill itself in any number of ways—through renunciation, through service, through knowledge, through wealth—who knows through what other forms?
Wherever the feeling “I am somebody” is present, there harmony with the Whole will not be possible. Because that one note—“I am”—will distort the entire music.
Can it not be that this “I” disappears?
It can be. It has happened. It will keep happening on this earth. It can happen within you as well.
The first sutra: knowing—knowledge—let it go, let it melt, let it flow away. There is one fear in letting it flow: “If my knowledge goes, I will be nothing; I will be a non-being; I will be nobody.”
Those who would seek the Divine—remember—they must become nobodies. At the doors of love, whoever goes as “somebody” returns empty-handed. Whoever goes as “nobody” finds the doors always open, and the welcome ready.
Rumi sang a song. A lover went to his beloved’s door, knocked. From inside a voice asked, “Who is it?”
The lover said, “I—it is I, your lover!”
Silence fell within. He rattled the door and cried, “Why do you not speak? I, your lover, stand at your door restless, calling.”
Past midnight a voice said, “Go back. These doors cannot open—for at the doors of love, the one who says ‘I am’—how could the doors open for him? In love’s house there is no room for two. Go back!”
The lover returned. Rains came and went, suns and colds, days came and went, moons rose and fell. Who knows how many years passed—and then one night there was a knock again. From behind the door a voice asked, “Who is it?” From outside a voice said, “Now there is no ‘I’—it is You.” They say the doors opened. And then the lover realized—the doors were open already; only because of ‘I’ did they seem closed. Where there was no ‘I’—there was no door.
‘I’ is the obstruction between man and God. The first and deepest and subtlest blow must be struck where ‘I’ has its deepest roots—at the feeling “I know.” And the truth is—we know nothing. So where is the difficulty in breaking it?
What do we know? What have we known? Nothing. Life passes as if one is drawing lines upon water. What does one know? Have you ever thought—what have you come to know? Nothing—nothing at all. Yet there may be fear in dropping it. He who does not cross that fear cannot be a traveler on the path to the Divine. That fear must be crossed.
The first sutra: strike the pride of knowledge, scatter it, let it go. The very moment you strike it, an astounding revolution will be felt within. Life will begin to appear utterly different. The very flower you passed yesterday—if you pass it today, it will appear new. Because yesterday you thought, “I know this flower.” The flower you knew was a nothing. But today, if you pass that flower knowing, “I do not know it,” perhaps you will pause a moment and look; perhaps it will appear mysterious, as if bringing a message from some unknown faraway. If you look at that flower with total silence, perhaps a glimpse of God’s beauty will be seen there. But the one who knows will not see—he passes like a blind man everywhere.
This pride of knowledge blinds us and does not allow us to see. Otherwise the soft grass under your feet—God is there too. The people around you—God is there too. The winds, the sky, the clouds—everything—and whatsoever is, in all of it That alone is. But it is not seen. It cannot be seen—because the eye—the seeing eye—is not there.
This knowledge stands like a curtain, like walls, closing every door of mystery. Therefore the first blow must be upon knowledge. And if you can strike knowledge, another horizon opens—fresh and new—the horizon of love. Whoever is ready to drop knowledge finds the doors of love opening.
The second sutra: break yourself away from knowledge; join yourself to love.
Drop the posture of knowing and give birth to the posture of loving. The knower cannot know; the lover comes to know.
But for thousands of years we have been nurtured in favor of knowledge and against love—beyond measure. We have been raised against love, for knowledge.
I ask you: move against knowledge—for love. Let your life move in love; step into love. If the mind flows toward love, nothing is closer to the Divine. If the intellect works in the direction of knowledge, nothing is farther from the Divine.
Science will never know God—because science seeks that so-called knowledge. The more science grows, the more it says, “There is no God anywhere.” As science advances it keeps saying, “We do not find any God anywhere. There is no God.” Science is the final consummation of that so-called knowledge.
But love finds God at every step. Love cannot even move without God—He is everywhere. But how will the mathematician understand the language of love? How will the knower understand? Love’s language does not enter his mind at all.
There was a fakir. He sang songs of love and spoke of love. Many people asked him, “Why don’t you talk about God?” He would say, “What is the point of talking about God? To speak of God to those who do not even know love is foolishness. So I speak only of love.”
“To those who do not know love, what can be said of God? To one who has not seen a lamp, what news can we give of the sun? What message of the sun can we offer? We speak only of the earthen lamp, not of the sun. And to one who has seen the lamp, what need to speak of the sun? Whoever has seen the lamp has seen the sun as well. So we never speak of God.”
He spoke of love. A pundit came and said, “You keep chanting love, love—do you even know how many types of love there are?” As the pundit always asks—“How many types of love? How many types of truth? How many types of gods?” He asks such questions everywhere. He asked that fakir as well, “Do you know how many types of love there are?”
The fakir said, “You have astonished me! Love we know—but ‘types’ we have never known. What is this ‘types’? Types in love?”
The pundit laughed. “Now it is my turn to laugh.” He took a book from his bag and said, “Look! It is written here that love is of five types. And you prattle love, love—without even knowing the types. What do you know of love? You don’t even know the ABC—first learn the types, read the shastras on love, learn the doctrines—then speak of love.”
The fakir said, “I made a mistake. We began straightaway to love—that was our error. We should have learned the types, enrolled in some academy of love. That did not happen. That was our mistake.”
He said, “Then listen! I will recite my scripture.” He recited—subtle analysis, as is the habit of pundits—subtleties upon subtleties, fine arguments, clever replies. The fakir listened silently; the pundit thought, “Good! The fakir is impressed.” To the pundit there are only two possibilities: either you argue with him—or you fall silent. Seeing that there was no argument, he concluded there was agreement. Finally he asked, “Did you hear it all? Did you understand? How did it seem?”
The fakir said, “It seemed to me…” and he sang a song, then stood up and danced. “It seemed to me like this: Once, perhaps you have heard, a goldsmith entered a garden of flowers carrying his touchstone, and said to the gardener, ‘Let me test which flowers are true.’ And he began rubbing the flowers upon his touchstone—and all the flowers proved false! Just as that gardener felt, so I felt when you began to make types of love.”
The language of love is the language of non-division; the language of knowledge is the language of division. Knowledge breaks, analyzes. Love joins, synthesizes—joining and breaking. Science breaks and breaks and breaks—until there is the atom, the final particle. Love, religion, joins and joins and joins—until there is the Paramatman.
Science reaches the atom—because it breaks, breaks, breaks. Love reaches the Paramatman—because it joins, joins, joins.
By joining, the door of God is found—not by breaking.
Therefore the first sutra: drop knowledge.
The second sutra: allow love to spread and unfold.
But how will love spread and unfold? Can it be by force? Will you go and forcibly begin to love? There are such people—who even force love, hoping thereby to find God. They “serve.”
In a school, a priest explained to children, “Love. Serve. Do not go to sleep without doing at least one act of service.” The next day he asked, “Did you do any act of service or love?” Three children raised their hands, “We did.” He was happy. Out of thirty, at least three obeyed. He called one child to stand and asked, “What act of love did you do?”
He said, “I helped an old lady cross the road.”
The priest said, “Thank you. Well done.”
He asked the second, “What did you do?”
He said, “I too helped an old lady cross the road.”
The priest had a thought—these two? Still he said, “You too did well.”
He asked the third, “What did you do?”
He said, “I too helped an old lady cross the road.”
He was baffled. “Did all three of you do the same act of service? You found three old ladies who needed to cross?”
They said, “No, no—you misunderstand. There weren’t three—there was only one old lady. The three of us helped that one across.”
He asked, “Did she need the help of three boys to cross?”
They said, “She didn’t want to cross at all. We somehow forced her to cross. She kept trying to run away. She didn’t want to cross.”
All these “servers” who go about serving the world are dangerous people of this sort. There are no more mischievous people on earth than these. They force their service. They drag across roads those who had no need to cross.
Servants have created more disturbance in the world than anyone else—thinking they are arranging for their own liberation by such acts. Who cares whether you need to cross or not? “We are arranging for our salvation—we will make you cross, whether you need to or not.”
In this way love and service cannot be produced by force. Love is not a deed; it is not an act. Love is meaningful only when it becomes your very breath.
How will love become your breath? How will it be possible that love flows through you?
If one small understanding dawns, there will be no obstacle to love’s flow. And that small understanding is not that others will benefit from your love. The small understanding is this: except through love, you can never be established in bliss. Love bestows your own bliss. Love is not someone else’s welfare; love is your own joy. Have you ever known any joy that was empty of love? Whenever you were in joy, it was certainly in some state of love. But in love one has to lose oneself—let go of oneself. Let go, lose yourself. The one who has the capacity to let go—only in him can the breath be filled with love.
We are not ready to let go of ourselves—even a little. We want to save ourselves, and save ourselves, and save ourselves.
A king’s chariot came thundering down the road at dawn—as all kings’ chariots raise dust that blinds many eyes. A Brahmin beggar stepped out in the morning with his bowl to ask for alms. The bowl was empty—but not entirely. He had placed in it a few grains of chickpea, a few of rice.
Beggars know many things. If the bowl is empty, the giver hesitates a little. If the bowl is a little filled, the giver feels others have also given—so should he. So all beggars drop a few grains into their bowls before they set out. And whoever among you does not do so, if present here—he errs. He should drop some in. Many will be present—for it is hard to find anyone who is not a beggar. Whoever is asking—is a beggar.
That beggar went out with his bowl. The sun was just rising. The king’s chariot arrived. The beggar thought, “Blessed are my stars! Usually I get only a few grains from the palace guard. How can a beggar behold the king? To behold a king, one must oneself be a king. I am a beggar. But today is my lucky day—the king and I meet on the road. I will stop the chariot, hold out my bowl—and my lives will be fulfilled.”
The chariot came. It stopped. The king stepped down. But the beggar was, after all, a beggar. Before the king he was so flustered that he forgot to hold out his bowl. And before he could remember to raise it, the king held out his own begging bowl before the beggar.
Sometimes such a joke happens—that in front of a beggar the king holds out his bowl. The beggar was in deep trouble. You can feel his anguish—everyone can. He had never given—only taken. He had never even imagined giving—only asked. Giving—he did not know it.
Do you know how to give? Rarely does anyone know. No one knows to give. Everyone knows to take.
He too did not know. His hands went into his bowl and returned empty. He could not muster the courage to lift a fistful of grains and drop them into the king’s bowl. A handful of grains is difficult to give. The king said, “Quick. I must go. Whatever you can give—give.” To refuse was hard, so with great difficulty he took out a single grain of rice and dropped it into the king’s bowl. He had made a great effort. Who can even dare to give a single grain? The king went back, sat, and the chariot departed. Dust swirled. The beggar stood there regretful: “Everything has gone wrong. One grain is gone. How hard it is to obtain a grain! And all the dreams I wove—that I would receive from the king—went under.”
All day the beggar was unhappy. Though he received many, many grains that day—more than ever before—his bowl was filled by evening. Still he was sorrowful because he had had to give one grain. No matter how much it filled—today one grain was missing. Never had his bowl been filled so much. Perhaps the moment was auspicious. Perhaps the morning hour was blessed. Perhaps because he gave, his misfortune turned into fortune. Because of giving one grain, he received much. But he was sad, repenting. He came home dejected.
His wife asked, “So sad? So downcast?” He said, “Yes. This morning I had to give something. I return with one grain less.” He turned his bowl over—and until then he had only been sad. Seeing what fell, he began to weep. For in that full bowl one grain of rice had become gold. He beat his chest and cried, “What a great mistake! Why did I not invert the entire bowl into the king’s bowl! Today all would have turned to gold. But now what can I do? Where is the door now?”
Whatever is given turns to gold. The heart that gives—is the heart that loves. The heart that asks—does not love. Therefore the one who goes into the temple asking God, “Give me this, give me that,” is not praying—he is begging. The one who goes into the temple and gives himself…
Farid was a fakir in Akbar’s time. The people of his village said, “Akbar loves you. Go—ask him to help the village; have him open a school.” Farid went early in the morning. Akbar was saying his namaz. Farid stood behind, thinking, “When the prayer finishes, I will speak. The time is good—perhaps he will not refuse.”
Akbar completed his prayer and raised his hands—unaware that anyone stood behind—and said, “O God, enlarge my kingdom! Increase my wealth! Double my treasures! Be gracious to me!”
Farid heard this and quietly slipped away. Akbar rose and saw Farid descending the steps. He ran and asked, “You came and go—without saying a word?”
Farid said, “I made a mistake. I thought you were an emperor—found you are a beggar. And I had come to beg from you. But seeing you beg, how could I trouble a beggar by begging? And if I must beg—then why not beg from the One from whom you begged? Now I return.”
This asking heart is the heart that does not love. We ask, and ask, and ask—twenty-four hours a day. When everyone is asking, if life fills with hatred and violence—what is there to be surprised about? If God is murdered—what surprise is there? Where is the surprise?
No—the asking heart is not a religious heart. The sharing heart, the giving heart is. And it is not necessary that you share your clothes or money—that is not the point. The feeling of sharing—within the heart. Twenty-four hours, occasions are there—challenges on every side—for love to be born and to spread within you. But for this love you will have to lose yourself—you will have to give yourself. Without losing yourself there is no way.
There are two ways to “lose” yourself: one is through intoxication—as most people do. They drink and lose themselves. They chant “Ram, Ram”—and chant so long that the mind grows bored, sleep comes—and they are lost. Someone watches a play, listens to music, becomes swooned and lost. There are many paths of forgetfulness—of losing oneself. That losing we all know. It is not losing—it is sleeping, stupefaction.
There is another losing—in love. Whoever is lost in love remembers the soul. Whoever is lost in intoxication forgets the soul even more.
So how to be lost in love? What to do? What will enable this? One thing: if the eyes open, love will flow from you, and you will be able to disappear. And that is this: to think of yourself as a separate unit is a mistake.
You were born—do you know how, from where? You will die—do you know where, and why? You are alive—do you know how? Your breath is going on—do you know how it goes on? Who runs it? Why does it go on? Yet you say, “I am breathing!” Can there be any statement more false than this—that you say, “I breathe”? If you breathed, then no one could kill you—if someone tried, you could simply continue breathing. Death could never come to anyone—because he could keep breathing. What could death do? Yet we say, “I breathe!” We do not breathe—breath is happening. And we say, “I breathe!”
We say, “My birth!” False. Birth is happening. What “my” is there in it? Where am I in that birth? We say, “My death; my breath; my life.” This “I” we keep attaching everywhere—though it is never true anywhere. It is not. By attaching it again and again we imagine it so much that it begins to feel as if “I am.” And that “I am” begins to demand—because without demanding it cannot become strong. It begins to accumulate—wealth, knowledge, renunciation. And it begins to ask, “How shall I attain liberation? How shall I reach heaven? How shall I find God?” All these are efforts of the same “I”—which is not.
So I do not tell you to try to drop the ego. If you try, you will never drop it. Who will try to drop it?—the same “I.” And one day it may even announce, “I am now completely egoless; I have become utterly humble. Humility has come to me. I am entirely humble; I have no ego.” That too will be ego.
What then to do? Do this within yourself…
Near the palace there was a heap of stones. A child came to play, picked up a stone and hurled it toward the palace. The stone rose upward—upward! A stone whose habit is always to go downward—rose upward. Naturally, it said to the stones lying below, “Friends, I am going on a tour of the sky.”
It was perfectly right. Those stones lay below, crushed under their own weight—unable even to move—let alone fly. Among stones, a great soul had been born—one who was going upward. Some rare incarnation it seemed—ascending. For stones the idea of upward movement was unimaginable—and yet it was happening. And how could even that stone know it was not going itself? It felt, “I am going.”
It rose, hit the palace window of glass; the glass shattered into pieces. The stone said, “How many times have I said—do not come in my way; otherwise you will be shattered!”
It was perfectly correct. No lie. The glass lay below broken, weeping.
The stone said, “How many times have I warned! But fools do not understand—they come in our way and must then be broken. Let no one dare to come in our way. Whoever comes—will be destroyed.”
It fell to the floor. A carpet was spread—it fell upon it. “I am a little tired,” the stone said. “An enemy has been annihilated. A long journey. A journey my ancestors never even imagined. Let me rest a while.”
It lay upon the carpet—but it said, “Let me sit and rest!” And it added, “Blessed is this royal family—what good people! News of my arrival must have been sent beforehand. Carpets have been spread. Good people indeed.”
Just then a servant of the palace came running at the sound. He picked up the stone. The stone said, “How kind they are! How hospitable—lifting me with welcome!” And the servant threw the stone back out. As it flew back the stone said to itself, “Now I feel a great longing for home—homesickness. I remember my friends. Let me return.”
It fell back among its heap, saying, “Friends, I have returned from an extraordinary journey.” The other stones stared with wide eyes: “Blessed are you, who were born among us and did such a great deed. Write your autobiography—it will be useful for children, for posterity. They will read and rejoice that one such was born among them.” And the stone puffed up, even bigger.
In this way stones puff up into mountains. That stone puffed up into a mountain of ego: “I.” It is writing its autobiography. I hear it will be published soon. Many stones have written before; it too is writing.
Is our life any different from this stone?
No—not at all. Birth unknown, death unknown, journey unknown—and we say, “I.” What could be more false? If you think it true for yourself more than for the stone—you are worse than the stone. It was false for the stone; for you it is even more false.
And a stone is only a stone. If such madness came to it, it is still all right. You are not a stone. But among human beings, the more stone-like the heart, the more this notion arises, “I am.”
Understand this “I”—this ego. See it. It will not prove to be any less your story than that stone’s.
The day this is seen—you will not have to drop the “I.” It will dissolve; it will not be found. A laughter will arise—and you will feel, “Ah! There was no ‘I’ at all.” And the day “I am not” is seen, that day That-Which-Is will be seen. Its name is Paramatman. And that very day what is called love will begin to flow. And that day the doors of the heart will open in all directions like a Ganga of love. A light, a bliss, a tremor, a music will be born in the life-breath. The thrill, the music—that is religion. And in that thrill, that music, that love, that light—what is known is called Paramatman.
The God of stones has died! And if we cannot give birth to the God of love, then humanity will have to live without God. And can you imagine what humanity will be without God?
Stone—because where there is no love, there are stones; where there is no God, there are stones. Whatever is worth attaining in life—is love. Why? Because love is the fragrance of the Paramatman. Whoever obtains love, slowly obtains the very source of the fragrance. That God belongs to no one—and He belongs to all. He is not imprisoned in any temple or mosque. He is not bound in any idol. He is spread everywhere.
But eyes of love are needed to see Him. The blind may go on reading scriptures—nothing will happen. The one whose eyes of love open—he looks—and all happens.
I said: God is dead! The responsibility is yours. God can be resurrected—through your love, through your becoming joyous, through the dissolution of your ego.
I have given you two sutras: break your chains from the shore of knowledge, and open your voyage into the sky of love—unfurl the sails. Let the winds of love carry you. But both are possible only if a midpoint between them is understood—I said it at the end: your ego. Leave the ego—only then can you be freed from knowledge. Let the ego go—only then can the doors of love and the Divine open. And ego is not at all; bid farewell to that which is not. Fold your hands before that which is not—erase that which is not—so that That-Which-Is can be found; which always is, always will be; which is here and now.
You have listened with such love and peace—this delights me deeply. I bow down to the Paramatman seated in everyone. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I would like to begin today’s talk with a small story.
One night I was a guest at an inn. It was overcrowded, filled to the brim with guests. And past midnight, another new guest arrived for whom there was simply no place. Such guests always appear in inns—no place for them, and yet a place must be found.
They brought that new guest into the same little room where I was staying. The room was small, and now too many of us. But I was amazed to see: it was past midnight; that weary traveler didn’t even remove his turban, didn’t take off his shoes; he lay down on the bed and began to toss and turn. No sleep looked likely to come to him, so I asked, “Friend, wouldn’t it be sensible to take off your clothes, remove your turban and shoes, so that you could sleep in comfort?”
The man said, “I too think I should remove my clothes. But there is a danger. The danger is: by nature I am very forgetful. My clothes help me remember that I am me. If I take them off, how will I decide in the morning who I am and who you are?”
His difficulty was absolutely real. If all our clothes were taken off, who could recognize whom? We recognize one another by our clothes. That is why there is such a mad race to accumulate more and more clothes.
I said, “What you say is exactly true.” And a story came to my mind.
A great poet, very poor, was invited by a king for a meal at the palace. His friends advised, “Don’t go in these clothes. It is difficult even to meet the king—his gatekeepers will send you back. These clothes are not worthy of any recognition.” But the poet, lost in his poetry, went. And what had to happen, happened. The gatekeepers turned him away. He pleaded, “Do you know who I am? Let me in.” They said, “Oh, stop! Lunatics like you come here every day to bother us. Be off!”
He returned. His friends said, “We told you so.”
The next day he went wearing borrowed clothes. The same gatekeepers who had turned him away yesterday touched his feet and said, “Welcome, sir, please come in. From where have you graced us?” The king took him into the dining hall and asked, “Yesterday I waited for you—you didn’t come?” The poet said nothing; he only smiled.
Food was served. The poet lifted the platter and addressed his clothes, “O my coat, please eat. O my turban, please partake!”
The king said, “Are you in your senses? Have you gone mad composing poetry? As often happens, poets lose their minds. Or the mad start composing poetry. Is this what has happened?”
The poet replied, “No. I had come yesterday as well, but these clothes were not with me; I was turned back from the door. These very clothes have brought me in today. It would be discourteous not to honor them first.”
So I said to that guest, “You are right. In the world, everyone is recognized by clothes. The world is a bazaar of clothes; that is how we recognize one another. And you are also right: others recognize us by our clothes—and we too recognize ourselves by our clothes. If we stood utterly naked, even we would find it difficult to know who we are. We know ourselves only through others. Does anyone ever know himself directly? We look at ourselves through other people’s eyes. Who looks with his own eyes? Therefore, if there are no clothes, and others cannot recognize you, you are right—you would not be able to recognize yourself either.”
He said, “This is exactly why I cannot sleep. If the room were mine alone, I would undress and sleep. But if I take my clothes off now, how will it be decided in the morning who I am and who you are?”
I said, “Friend, there is a trick. Before us some child who stayed in this room left behind a balloon and a doll.” I told him, “Let me tie this balloon to your foot and place this little doll beside you—so that your identity remains, so that your ‘who’ remains. In the morning you can put your clothes back on.”
I asked, “What is your name?”
He said, “My name? My name is Mulla Nasruddin.”
He took off his clothes. I tied the balloon to his foot and placed the doll near him. He felt assured and went to sleep.
When his snoring began, a thought arose in me. I got up, untied his balloon and tied it to my own foot, and I placed the doll on my bed. And the inevitable happened. Around four o’clock he screamed, “Look, what was bound to go wrong seems to have gone wrong!” He got up, shook me and said, “Trouble has arrived. Wake up!”
I asked, “What happened?”
He said, “The trouble is, the balloon is tied to your foot, the doll is on your bed—so if you are Mulla Nasruddin, who am I?”
As you laughed, I too laughed. But for that laughter I am still paying, even today. For when I laughed, he opened the door and ran outside shouting, “Who am I?” And then it became difficult for me to understand what to do. I ran after him, but I was a little late; I too was in bed, and by the time I dressed, he had gone far. When I came out, I heard a voice from under a bush—someone was asking, “Who am I?” I went there and asked the person, “Are you Mulla Nasruddin?” He said, “I don’t even know who I am—how can I tell you I am Mulla Nasruddin?” Ever since, whomever I see asking, “Who am I?” I ask him, “Are you Mulla Nasruddin?” And he says, “I don’t know who I am!”
So I am roaming about carrying Mulla Nasruddin’s clothes, hoping to return them if I ever find him and be rid of them. But there is no trace of that man. And whomever I look at carefully, he seems to be asking, “Who am I?” No one seems to know.
We laughed at that man—so did I. But later it became clear that he was the representative of all humanity, because no human being really knows who he is.
It makes no difference that you know your name or where your house is. All that concerns the garments. That is talk about clothes. Your name can be changed—but you remain the same. Your clothes can be changed, your house can be changed—but you remain the same. Your position can be snatched away, your wealth taken, you may become a beggar on the road—still you remain the same. You were a child, you became a youth, you grew old—everything changed, and yet you did not change.
Who is that which abides within, unchanged? Is there any recognition of it? Any remembrance of it?
No—there is no trace.
Man does not know what he is. And such a man searches for God—how will God be found? Such a man searches for truth—how will truth be found?
Before knowing God, it is necessary to know oneself. Before knowing truth, it is necessary to recognize oneself. Because if the nearest remains unknown, how will the farthest ever be known?
So before you go to a temple to seek God, before you wander through scriptures seeking truth, do not forget the person who is you. First—and foremost—become acquainted with the one who is you.
But no one is eager to know himself. Everyone wants to know others.
Knowing others is science. Knowing oneself is religion. Knowing others is science. Knowing oneself is religion. And the one who knows himself—astonishingly—knows others too. While the one who spends his time knowing others—more astonishingly still—does not even come to know others; slowly, the doors to self-knowing also close for him.
The first ray of knowing shines from the self, and slowly spreads to all. The first flame of knowing lights within, and its luminosity begins to be seen throughout all of life.
The first day I said: God is dead. God has died because no one is in search of knowing himself. God can be resurrected—if someone knows himself. For whomever knows himself, God is resurrected. For whomever does not know himself, God is dead—no matter how much he worships, no matter how many rituals and offerings he performs, no matter how many temples he builds, statues he makes—no matter what he does. If he has left undone only one thing—knowing himself—then let him know well that no relation with the Divine will ever be possible.
The first basic, foundational condition for relation with the Divine is: become related to yourself.
How can one become related to oneself? That is what I will speak on today.
Because that is the key, the bridge, the path, the door to becoming related with the Divine. And then the God who is revealed is not the God manufactured by man’s imagination, but That which is—simply That. Not the Hindu’s God, not the Muslim’s, not the Jain’s, not the Christian’s—just God. Then no form, no name. No beginning, no end. No boundary at all.
How will such truth—such truth that surrounds us on every side—become visible?
And if, without knowing ourselves, we begin a race to see Him, that race is mistaken from the very start. Whatever we come to know in that way will only deepen and enlarge our ignorance.
A blind man was a guest at a friend’s house. In welcome, the friend prepared many sweets. The blind man liked one and asked, “What is this?” It was made of milk. His friends said, “It’s a sweet made from milk.”
The blind man said, “Would you be kind enough to tell me something about milk—what is this ‘milk’ like?”
His friends did what so-called knowers have always done. They began to explain. One friend said, “Milk is white—pure white—like the feathers of an egret.”
The blind man said, “Are you making fun of me? I do not even understand milk, and you speak of an egret and its white feathers. Now another difficulty has arisen. Will you explain what an egret is, and its white feathers? If I first understand an egret and whiteness, then perhaps I can understand milk!”
The first problem remained; a second question stood up—what are the white feathers of an egret? What is an egret like?
The friends were embarrassed. One friend devised a trick. He raised his arm, took the blind man’s hand and ran it along his bent arm, and said, “Just as my arm is bent, so the egret’s long neck is bent.” The blind man ran his hand along the bent arm. He stood up and began to dance, “I have understood! Milk is like a bent arm! I have understood—milk is like a bent arm.”
His friends were in great distress. Better if they had not tried to explain. It would have been better to know that they did not know—than to know this dangerous nonsense: that milk is like a bent arm!
When scriptures fall into the hands of those who have not opened their own eyes, this is what happens; when doctrines fall into such hands, this is their fate. “What is God like?” As milk is like a bent arm, in just such a way God is grasped by them.
Such a false God has died! I am talking to you about this of late.
And it is good that he has died. Let me give you a new message born of his death: he died because your eyes are closed. We are blind. Therefore God has had to die. Our blindness has murdered Him.
Are we willing to open our eyes? Those who love life and truth—if they are willing to open their eyes, the light of God can shine throughout existence.
How will those eyes open? How will we open the doors of the self that are shut? A few sutras I will share with you this evening.
The first sutra: as I said—no knowledge, but un-knowing. A state of not knowing. A condition of the mind in which we clearly know: “I know nothing. I do not know anything at all.” This clear acceptance of innocence, of ignorance, is the first sutra.
Knowledge will have to be dropped, if one truly wants to attain right and true knowing. Knowledge will have to be dropped. The human mind is burdened under knowledge—like rocks and mountains on the chest. We all appear as if we know everything—when in fact we know nothing. A husband does not even know his wife. A father does not even know his son. All this is so mysterious. The stone at your threshold—you do not know it. The flowers blooming in your courtyard—you do not know them. We know nothing. Life is so unknown, so mysterious, so full of wonder. But our ego says we know everything. The father’s ego says, “You are my son; I know you very well.”
Buddha returned to his village after twelve years. The whole village came to receive him. His father came too. But the father still carried the anger of those twelve years: “The boy ran away.” He went to Buddha straightaway and said, “Listen, I am your father—and even now I can forgive you. Return home. Ask forgiveness for your mistake.”
What did Buddha say? “You are making the mistake. That you know me—you err in saying so. Whether you even know yourself is doubtful; how then will you know me? Because I am your son, do you know me? You are also mistaken there. I may have been born through you—but I was not born from you. You were a pathway for me to come into this world—but not my maker. You were a passage, no more.”
“Just now I came through a crossroads. If, when I return, that crossroads stops me and says, ‘Wait! I know you well—you passed by me just a little while ago!’—a father saying to his child, ‘I know you well,’ is the same mistake.” The father was a crossroads through which the child passed into the world. But knowing—and in the illusion of knowing—the mystery that is life remained unknown.
We all appear as if we know everything. The illusion of knowing must fall—only then is mystery born in life. Only then do the eyes begin to open toward the unknown and the unknowable.
He who does not free himself from the shore of the known—his voyage into the ocean of the unknown is not for him. And God is utterly unknown. And we ourselves are utterly unknown. We do not know what is within us. If we cling to what we know, then this journey into the unknown will not be possible.
Let me tell a small incident to make my point clear.
One night in a village—what happens every night in every village—some young men went into a tavern, drank, and lost their senses. Drunk, they came out. The full moon was in the sky. They said, “What a beautiful night! Come, let us go to the lake.”
They went to the lake, boarded a boat, took up the oars and began their voyage. The night passed. All night they rowed and rowed and rowed. When cool breezes began to blow and their intoxication thinned, one of them said, “Who knows how far we have come, who knows in which direction. It is near dawn—let us find out where we have reached and return. The villagers must be awake.” Two of them stepped onto the shore, and cried out in amazement, “Don’t panic! Come down! We are standing where we were at night.” They were astonished. They had forgotten to unfasten the chains. The boat was tied to the post. They had rowed all night. All that effort was wasted. They labored much, but where they were, they remained.
Most people—when the cool breezes of death begin to blow and the intoxication of life wears off—find their boat tied to the shore. They are standing exactly where they began their journey. Why? Because they forgot to unchain themselves from the shore.
This shore is our knowledge—the things we know. Each of us is bound by what we know—by some scripture he has read: the Gita, the Koran, or something else; by something heard; by some experience had. He is bound by it.
Whoever binds himself to knowing is bound to the past—because knowledge is always of the past. It is gone. What you have known is already dead. It is over. To remain bound to the dead—how will you journey into the future? How will you go ahead? Knowledge is always bygone. Whatever you have known—is gone.
And the Divine is the unknown, the unknowable. If we are bound to what is known, how will we ever know the unknown? Therefore, the one who drops the bundle of knowledge alone can journey into that ocean of the unknown which is of God—and of the self.
The first sutra: become free of knowledge.
But all of us are in search of knowledge. God forbid that you ever find it! If you do, you will be stuck right there—you will stop.
Those who become “knowers” are the ones who stop—and become dead. Have you ever seen anyone more dead than a pundit? As dead as that? Difficult—almost impossible. As pedantry increases in the world, so does deadness.
Why? Because they bind themselves with their knowing. That bondage no longer allows their consciousness to take flight into the infinite ocean, the vast sky, the Divine. Their feet are tied to the earth.
The courage to be free of the known; the courage to be free of knowledge—this alone makes a person religious. Courage to be free of knowledge!
The first sutra: break your chains from the shore of knowledge.
You will feel great panic. To leave wealth is quite easy—but to leave knowledge is very difficult. That is why even those who renounce wealth do not leave knowledge. They leave wealth—yet the books that wealth purchased, they tie into a bundle and carry with them. They do not leave knowledge.
A man becomes a sannyasi; he leaves house and door, wife and children—but he does not leave being a Hindu, or a Jain, or a Muslim. How astonishing that to this day a true sadhu has not yet been born on the earth! The sadhu is Hindu, the sadhu is Muslim, the sadhu is Christian. What madness is this? There should be only a sadhu on earth.
How have the names Hindu, Christian, Muslim stuck behind a sadhu? If such diseases cling to the irreligious, one can understand. But to see these diseases clinging to the sadhu is astonishing indeed. Knowledge—Hindu knowledge, Muslim knowledge, Jain knowledge—once grabbed, does not let go.
Why do we not want to leave it?
Because it is also an inner wealth. Money is outer wealth; knowledge is inner wealth. To leave outer wealth is not so difficult. The one who leaves inner wealth alone can be related to the Divine.
Christ said: Blessed are the poor. To whom did he say it? To those without even a loincloth? If only they are blessed, Christ spoke wrongly. It would mean he supports poverty and destitution.
No—Christ said: poor in spirit. Blessed are those who are poor in spirit.
What does it mean? Poor in spirit means: those who have thrown away the wealth of knowledge and said, “Within us there is no wealth of knowing. We know nothing. We are utterly ignorant.” Who have not bound themselves to the past—blessed are those who are poor in spirit.
Poverty of spirit means: those who have left the treasures of knowledge. Only such people—only those few—can know truth, can know the Divine.
So what preparations are there for leaving knowledge? Those who persuaded people to leave wealth have been proved wrong. Leaving wealth is not the great issue.
Wealth is outside. Even if you leave it, whatever you attain will be only outside. Knowledge feels inside. If you leave it, whatever you attain will be inside. And remember, in the world there are only two coins—money and knowledge. And only two kinds of people—those who gather money and those who gather knowledge.
A king lived in a palace by the sea. One evening he stood upon the terrace. Hundreds of ships were coming and going. He said to his vizier, “Do you see? Hundreds of ships come and go.”
The vizier said, “Earlier I too saw hundreds. For some days now I see only two ships.”
The king said, “Has your mind gone wrong? Two ships? Hundreds are coming and going!”
The vizier replied, “Perhaps my vision errs. But I still see only two—one is the ship of wealth, the other the ship of knowledge. And the whole journey of all ships is of these two alone. Either someone is going to seek wealth or someone is going to seek knowledge.”
Wealth satisfies the ego: “I am somebody. I have so much.” Identity is obtained—garments are obtained through wealth. Then we forget we do not know ourselves. “I have money; I am something.” Try nudging a wealthy man—he will say, “Do you know who I am?” But if his wealth is snatched away—and this happens every day—if he is no longer a minister, and becomes “former minister”—dead, finished—then he will not say, “Do you know who I am?” Rather, if you nudge him he will respond, “Did you get hurt?” But yesterday, if he had been a minister and you only passed by—no nudge even—if only the shadow of your body had touched him, he would have shouted, “Stop! Do you know who I am?”
Wealth, position, grandeur—they give a feeling that “I am somebody.” In the illusion of being “somebody,” the remembrance that “I do not know who I am” is lost. In the illusion of “something,” the question “Who am I?” is forgotten.
There is another pursuit: knowledge. The knower too becomes proud—“I am somebody.” And the knower is more conceited than the wealthy. He says, “These wealthy ones are entangled in outer possessions—materialists. We are spiritual; we are seekers of knowledge. Wealth is a petty thing.” But what is happening through this knowledge? The ego is being strengthened—“I am somebody.” Look into the eyes of the learned, wander around them—you will not find peace; you will find ego. Otherwise would the learned roam about for debates? Trying to defeat and humiliate one another?
Where there is the urge to defeat another, what is there except ego? Would the learned write scriptures full of refutations, condemnations, abuses? If you read the texts of these pundits, you will be astonished—every possible abuse is there. Whatever violence, hatred, and anger one human being can harbor toward another—all of it is there. What is this? These knowers have fought among themselves and made the world fight too; they have raised such walls that breaking them has become difficult. All these walls are walls of ego. Even if these knowers leave wealth, it makes no difference—ego is still gratified.
A sadhu once told me, “I kicked away millions of rupees.” He said it once, he said it twice, he said it thrice. I asked, “When did you kick them away?” He said, “Twenty or twenty-five years ago.” I said, “If you won’t be offended, I would like to say—the kick didn’t really land.” He asked, “Why?” I said, “Because a kick delivered twenty-five years ago—why is its memory still here? The kick did not land. Why do you keep recalling again and again, ‘I gave up millions’? When you had millions, there was the ego that ‘I have millions.’ When you abandoned them, from then on there is the ego that ‘I have abandoned millions.’”
Ego remains in its seat. Your renunciation made no difference. There is the ego of the wealthy; there is the ego of the renunciate. And the renunciate’s ego is more dangerous than the rich man’s—because it is subtler, almost invisible. The knower’s ego says, “I know.” This sense of “I know” is the subtlest inner wall. It will not allow union with the whole; it will sever. Ego is a breaking force—it breaks you off from all. You become an island—small and separate. Ego separates, therefore ego can never lead toward the Divine.
Ego can fill itself in any number of ways—through renunciation, through service, through knowledge, through wealth—who knows through what other forms?
Wherever the feeling “I am somebody” is present, there harmony with the Whole will not be possible. Because that one note—“I am”—will distort the entire music.
Can it not be that this “I” disappears?
It can be. It has happened. It will keep happening on this earth. It can happen within you as well.
The first sutra: knowing—knowledge—let it go, let it melt, let it flow away. There is one fear in letting it flow: “If my knowledge goes, I will be nothing; I will be a non-being; I will be nobody.”
Those who would seek the Divine—remember—they must become nobodies. At the doors of love, whoever goes as “somebody” returns empty-handed. Whoever goes as “nobody” finds the doors always open, and the welcome ready.
Rumi sang a song. A lover went to his beloved’s door, knocked. From inside a voice asked, “Who is it?”
The lover said, “I—it is I, your lover!”
Silence fell within. He rattled the door and cried, “Why do you not speak? I, your lover, stand at your door restless, calling.”
Past midnight a voice said, “Go back. These doors cannot open—for at the doors of love, the one who says ‘I am’—how could the doors open for him? In love’s house there is no room for two. Go back!”
The lover returned. Rains came and went, suns and colds, days came and went, moons rose and fell. Who knows how many years passed—and then one night there was a knock again. From behind the door a voice asked, “Who is it?” From outside a voice said, “Now there is no ‘I’—it is You.” They say the doors opened. And then the lover realized—the doors were open already; only because of ‘I’ did they seem closed. Where there was no ‘I’—there was no door.
‘I’ is the obstruction between man and God. The first and deepest and subtlest blow must be struck where ‘I’ has its deepest roots—at the feeling “I know.” And the truth is—we know nothing. So where is the difficulty in breaking it?
What do we know? What have we known? Nothing. Life passes as if one is drawing lines upon water. What does one know? Have you ever thought—what have you come to know? Nothing—nothing at all. Yet there may be fear in dropping it. He who does not cross that fear cannot be a traveler on the path to the Divine. That fear must be crossed.
The first sutra: strike the pride of knowledge, scatter it, let it go. The very moment you strike it, an astounding revolution will be felt within. Life will begin to appear utterly different. The very flower you passed yesterday—if you pass it today, it will appear new. Because yesterday you thought, “I know this flower.” The flower you knew was a nothing. But today, if you pass that flower knowing, “I do not know it,” perhaps you will pause a moment and look; perhaps it will appear mysterious, as if bringing a message from some unknown faraway. If you look at that flower with total silence, perhaps a glimpse of God’s beauty will be seen there. But the one who knows will not see—he passes like a blind man everywhere.
This pride of knowledge blinds us and does not allow us to see. Otherwise the soft grass under your feet—God is there too. The people around you—God is there too. The winds, the sky, the clouds—everything—and whatsoever is, in all of it That alone is. But it is not seen. It cannot be seen—because the eye—the seeing eye—is not there.
This knowledge stands like a curtain, like walls, closing every door of mystery. Therefore the first blow must be upon knowledge. And if you can strike knowledge, another horizon opens—fresh and new—the horizon of love. Whoever is ready to drop knowledge finds the doors of love opening.
The second sutra: break yourself away from knowledge; join yourself to love.
Drop the posture of knowing and give birth to the posture of loving. The knower cannot know; the lover comes to know.
But for thousands of years we have been nurtured in favor of knowledge and against love—beyond measure. We have been raised against love, for knowledge.
I ask you: move against knowledge—for love. Let your life move in love; step into love. If the mind flows toward love, nothing is closer to the Divine. If the intellect works in the direction of knowledge, nothing is farther from the Divine.
Science will never know God—because science seeks that so-called knowledge. The more science grows, the more it says, “There is no God anywhere.” As science advances it keeps saying, “We do not find any God anywhere. There is no God.” Science is the final consummation of that so-called knowledge.
But love finds God at every step. Love cannot even move without God—He is everywhere. But how will the mathematician understand the language of love? How will the knower understand? Love’s language does not enter his mind at all.
There was a fakir. He sang songs of love and spoke of love. Many people asked him, “Why don’t you talk about God?” He would say, “What is the point of talking about God? To speak of God to those who do not even know love is foolishness. So I speak only of love.”
“To those who do not know love, what can be said of God? To one who has not seen a lamp, what news can we give of the sun? What message of the sun can we offer? We speak only of the earthen lamp, not of the sun. And to one who has seen the lamp, what need to speak of the sun? Whoever has seen the lamp has seen the sun as well. So we never speak of God.”
He spoke of love. A pundit came and said, “You keep chanting love, love—do you even know how many types of love there are?” As the pundit always asks—“How many types of love? How many types of truth? How many types of gods?” He asks such questions everywhere. He asked that fakir as well, “Do you know how many types of love there are?”
The fakir said, “You have astonished me! Love we know—but ‘types’ we have never known. What is this ‘types’? Types in love?”
The pundit laughed. “Now it is my turn to laugh.” He took a book from his bag and said, “Look! It is written here that love is of five types. And you prattle love, love—without even knowing the types. What do you know of love? You don’t even know the ABC—first learn the types, read the shastras on love, learn the doctrines—then speak of love.”
The fakir said, “I made a mistake. We began straightaway to love—that was our error. We should have learned the types, enrolled in some academy of love. That did not happen. That was our mistake.”
He said, “Then listen! I will recite my scripture.” He recited—subtle analysis, as is the habit of pundits—subtleties upon subtleties, fine arguments, clever replies. The fakir listened silently; the pundit thought, “Good! The fakir is impressed.” To the pundit there are only two possibilities: either you argue with him—or you fall silent. Seeing that there was no argument, he concluded there was agreement. Finally he asked, “Did you hear it all? Did you understand? How did it seem?”
The fakir said, “It seemed to me…” and he sang a song, then stood up and danced. “It seemed to me like this: Once, perhaps you have heard, a goldsmith entered a garden of flowers carrying his touchstone, and said to the gardener, ‘Let me test which flowers are true.’ And he began rubbing the flowers upon his touchstone—and all the flowers proved false! Just as that gardener felt, so I felt when you began to make types of love.”
The language of love is the language of non-division; the language of knowledge is the language of division. Knowledge breaks, analyzes. Love joins, synthesizes—joining and breaking. Science breaks and breaks and breaks—until there is the atom, the final particle. Love, religion, joins and joins and joins—until there is the Paramatman.
Science reaches the atom—because it breaks, breaks, breaks. Love reaches the Paramatman—because it joins, joins, joins.
By joining, the door of God is found—not by breaking.
Therefore the first sutra: drop knowledge.
The second sutra: allow love to spread and unfold.
But how will love spread and unfold? Can it be by force? Will you go and forcibly begin to love? There are such people—who even force love, hoping thereby to find God. They “serve.”
In a school, a priest explained to children, “Love. Serve. Do not go to sleep without doing at least one act of service.” The next day he asked, “Did you do any act of service or love?” Three children raised their hands, “We did.” He was happy. Out of thirty, at least three obeyed. He called one child to stand and asked, “What act of love did you do?”
He said, “I helped an old lady cross the road.”
The priest said, “Thank you. Well done.”
He asked the second, “What did you do?”
He said, “I too helped an old lady cross the road.”
The priest had a thought—these two? Still he said, “You too did well.”
He asked the third, “What did you do?”
He said, “I too helped an old lady cross the road.”
He was baffled. “Did all three of you do the same act of service? You found three old ladies who needed to cross?”
They said, “No, no—you misunderstand. There weren’t three—there was only one old lady. The three of us helped that one across.”
He asked, “Did she need the help of three boys to cross?”
They said, “She didn’t want to cross at all. We somehow forced her to cross. She kept trying to run away. She didn’t want to cross.”
All these “servers” who go about serving the world are dangerous people of this sort. There are no more mischievous people on earth than these. They force their service. They drag across roads those who had no need to cross.
Servants have created more disturbance in the world than anyone else—thinking they are arranging for their own liberation by such acts. Who cares whether you need to cross or not? “We are arranging for our salvation—we will make you cross, whether you need to or not.”
In this way love and service cannot be produced by force. Love is not a deed; it is not an act. Love is meaningful only when it becomes your very breath.
How will love become your breath? How will it be possible that love flows through you?
If one small understanding dawns, there will be no obstacle to love’s flow. And that small understanding is not that others will benefit from your love. The small understanding is this: except through love, you can never be established in bliss. Love bestows your own bliss. Love is not someone else’s welfare; love is your own joy. Have you ever known any joy that was empty of love? Whenever you were in joy, it was certainly in some state of love. But in love one has to lose oneself—let go of oneself. Let go, lose yourself. The one who has the capacity to let go—only in him can the breath be filled with love.
We are not ready to let go of ourselves—even a little. We want to save ourselves, and save ourselves, and save ourselves.
A king’s chariot came thundering down the road at dawn—as all kings’ chariots raise dust that blinds many eyes. A Brahmin beggar stepped out in the morning with his bowl to ask for alms. The bowl was empty—but not entirely. He had placed in it a few grains of chickpea, a few of rice.
Beggars know many things. If the bowl is empty, the giver hesitates a little. If the bowl is a little filled, the giver feels others have also given—so should he. So all beggars drop a few grains into their bowls before they set out. And whoever among you does not do so, if present here—he errs. He should drop some in. Many will be present—for it is hard to find anyone who is not a beggar. Whoever is asking—is a beggar.
That beggar went out with his bowl. The sun was just rising. The king’s chariot arrived. The beggar thought, “Blessed are my stars! Usually I get only a few grains from the palace guard. How can a beggar behold the king? To behold a king, one must oneself be a king. I am a beggar. But today is my lucky day—the king and I meet on the road. I will stop the chariot, hold out my bowl—and my lives will be fulfilled.”
The chariot came. It stopped. The king stepped down. But the beggar was, after all, a beggar. Before the king he was so flustered that he forgot to hold out his bowl. And before he could remember to raise it, the king held out his own begging bowl before the beggar.
Sometimes such a joke happens—that in front of a beggar the king holds out his bowl. The beggar was in deep trouble. You can feel his anguish—everyone can. He had never given—only taken. He had never even imagined giving—only asked. Giving—he did not know it.
Do you know how to give? Rarely does anyone know. No one knows to give. Everyone knows to take.
He too did not know. His hands went into his bowl and returned empty. He could not muster the courage to lift a fistful of grains and drop them into the king’s bowl. A handful of grains is difficult to give. The king said, “Quick. I must go. Whatever you can give—give.” To refuse was hard, so with great difficulty he took out a single grain of rice and dropped it into the king’s bowl. He had made a great effort. Who can even dare to give a single grain? The king went back, sat, and the chariot departed. Dust swirled. The beggar stood there regretful: “Everything has gone wrong. One grain is gone. How hard it is to obtain a grain! And all the dreams I wove—that I would receive from the king—went under.”
All day the beggar was unhappy. Though he received many, many grains that day—more than ever before—his bowl was filled by evening. Still he was sorrowful because he had had to give one grain. No matter how much it filled—today one grain was missing. Never had his bowl been filled so much. Perhaps the moment was auspicious. Perhaps the morning hour was blessed. Perhaps because he gave, his misfortune turned into fortune. Because of giving one grain, he received much. But he was sad, repenting. He came home dejected.
His wife asked, “So sad? So downcast?” He said, “Yes. This morning I had to give something. I return with one grain less.” He turned his bowl over—and until then he had only been sad. Seeing what fell, he began to weep. For in that full bowl one grain of rice had become gold. He beat his chest and cried, “What a great mistake! Why did I not invert the entire bowl into the king’s bowl! Today all would have turned to gold. But now what can I do? Where is the door now?”
Whatever is given turns to gold. The heart that gives—is the heart that loves. The heart that asks—does not love. Therefore the one who goes into the temple asking God, “Give me this, give me that,” is not praying—he is begging. The one who goes into the temple and gives himself…
Farid was a fakir in Akbar’s time. The people of his village said, “Akbar loves you. Go—ask him to help the village; have him open a school.” Farid went early in the morning. Akbar was saying his namaz. Farid stood behind, thinking, “When the prayer finishes, I will speak. The time is good—perhaps he will not refuse.”
Akbar completed his prayer and raised his hands—unaware that anyone stood behind—and said, “O God, enlarge my kingdom! Increase my wealth! Double my treasures! Be gracious to me!”
Farid heard this and quietly slipped away. Akbar rose and saw Farid descending the steps. He ran and asked, “You came and go—without saying a word?”
Farid said, “I made a mistake. I thought you were an emperor—found you are a beggar. And I had come to beg from you. But seeing you beg, how could I trouble a beggar by begging? And if I must beg—then why not beg from the One from whom you begged? Now I return.”
This asking heart is the heart that does not love. We ask, and ask, and ask—twenty-four hours a day. When everyone is asking, if life fills with hatred and violence—what is there to be surprised about? If God is murdered—what surprise is there? Where is the surprise?
No—the asking heart is not a religious heart. The sharing heart, the giving heart is. And it is not necessary that you share your clothes or money—that is not the point. The feeling of sharing—within the heart. Twenty-four hours, occasions are there—challenges on every side—for love to be born and to spread within you. But for this love you will have to lose yourself—you will have to give yourself. Without losing yourself there is no way.
There are two ways to “lose” yourself: one is through intoxication—as most people do. They drink and lose themselves. They chant “Ram, Ram”—and chant so long that the mind grows bored, sleep comes—and they are lost. Someone watches a play, listens to music, becomes swooned and lost. There are many paths of forgetfulness—of losing oneself. That losing we all know. It is not losing—it is sleeping, stupefaction.
There is another losing—in love. Whoever is lost in love remembers the soul. Whoever is lost in intoxication forgets the soul even more.
So how to be lost in love? What to do? What will enable this? One thing: if the eyes open, love will flow from you, and you will be able to disappear. And that is this: to think of yourself as a separate unit is a mistake.
You were born—do you know how, from where? You will die—do you know where, and why? You are alive—do you know how? Your breath is going on—do you know how it goes on? Who runs it? Why does it go on? Yet you say, “I am breathing!” Can there be any statement more false than this—that you say, “I breathe”? If you breathed, then no one could kill you—if someone tried, you could simply continue breathing. Death could never come to anyone—because he could keep breathing. What could death do? Yet we say, “I breathe!” We do not breathe—breath is happening. And we say, “I breathe!”
We say, “My birth!” False. Birth is happening. What “my” is there in it? Where am I in that birth? We say, “My death; my breath; my life.” This “I” we keep attaching everywhere—though it is never true anywhere. It is not. By attaching it again and again we imagine it so much that it begins to feel as if “I am.” And that “I am” begins to demand—because without demanding it cannot become strong. It begins to accumulate—wealth, knowledge, renunciation. And it begins to ask, “How shall I attain liberation? How shall I reach heaven? How shall I find God?” All these are efforts of the same “I”—which is not.
So I do not tell you to try to drop the ego. If you try, you will never drop it. Who will try to drop it?—the same “I.” And one day it may even announce, “I am now completely egoless; I have become utterly humble. Humility has come to me. I am entirely humble; I have no ego.” That too will be ego.
What then to do? Do this within yourself…
Near the palace there was a heap of stones. A child came to play, picked up a stone and hurled it toward the palace. The stone rose upward—upward! A stone whose habit is always to go downward—rose upward. Naturally, it said to the stones lying below, “Friends, I am going on a tour of the sky.”
It was perfectly right. Those stones lay below, crushed under their own weight—unable even to move—let alone fly. Among stones, a great soul had been born—one who was going upward. Some rare incarnation it seemed—ascending. For stones the idea of upward movement was unimaginable—and yet it was happening. And how could even that stone know it was not going itself? It felt, “I am going.”
It rose, hit the palace window of glass; the glass shattered into pieces. The stone said, “How many times have I said—do not come in my way; otherwise you will be shattered!”
It was perfectly correct. No lie. The glass lay below broken, weeping.
The stone said, “How many times have I warned! But fools do not understand—they come in our way and must then be broken. Let no one dare to come in our way. Whoever comes—will be destroyed.”
It fell to the floor. A carpet was spread—it fell upon it. “I am a little tired,” the stone said. “An enemy has been annihilated. A long journey. A journey my ancestors never even imagined. Let me rest a while.”
It lay upon the carpet—but it said, “Let me sit and rest!” And it added, “Blessed is this royal family—what good people! News of my arrival must have been sent beforehand. Carpets have been spread. Good people indeed.”
Just then a servant of the palace came running at the sound. He picked up the stone. The stone said, “How kind they are! How hospitable—lifting me with welcome!” And the servant threw the stone back out. As it flew back the stone said to itself, “Now I feel a great longing for home—homesickness. I remember my friends. Let me return.”
It fell back among its heap, saying, “Friends, I have returned from an extraordinary journey.” The other stones stared with wide eyes: “Blessed are you, who were born among us and did such a great deed. Write your autobiography—it will be useful for children, for posterity. They will read and rejoice that one such was born among them.” And the stone puffed up, even bigger.
In this way stones puff up into mountains. That stone puffed up into a mountain of ego: “I.” It is writing its autobiography. I hear it will be published soon. Many stones have written before; it too is writing.
Is our life any different from this stone?
No—not at all. Birth unknown, death unknown, journey unknown—and we say, “I.” What could be more false? If you think it true for yourself more than for the stone—you are worse than the stone. It was false for the stone; for you it is even more false.
And a stone is only a stone. If such madness came to it, it is still all right. You are not a stone. But among human beings, the more stone-like the heart, the more this notion arises, “I am.”
Understand this “I”—this ego. See it. It will not prove to be any less your story than that stone’s.
The day this is seen—you will not have to drop the “I.” It will dissolve; it will not be found. A laughter will arise—and you will feel, “Ah! There was no ‘I’ at all.” And the day “I am not” is seen, that day That-Which-Is will be seen. Its name is Paramatman. And that very day what is called love will begin to flow. And that day the doors of the heart will open in all directions like a Ganga of love. A light, a bliss, a tremor, a music will be born in the life-breath. The thrill, the music—that is religion. And in that thrill, that music, that love, that light—what is known is called Paramatman.
The God of stones has died! And if we cannot give birth to the God of love, then humanity will have to live without God. And can you imagine what humanity will be without God?
Stone—because where there is no love, there are stones; where there is no God, there are stones. Whatever is worth attaining in life—is love. Why? Because love is the fragrance of the Paramatman. Whoever obtains love, slowly obtains the very source of the fragrance. That God belongs to no one—and He belongs to all. He is not imprisoned in any temple or mosque. He is not bound in any idol. He is spread everywhere.
But eyes of love are needed to see Him. The blind may go on reading scriptures—nothing will happen. The one whose eyes of love open—he looks—and all happens.
I said: God is dead! The responsibility is yours. God can be resurrected—through your love, through your becoming joyous, through the dissolution of your ego.
I have given you two sutras: break your chains from the shore of knowledge, and open your voyage into the sky of love—unfurl the sails. Let the winds of love carry you. But both are possible only if a midpoint between them is understood—I said it at the end: your ego. Leave the ego—only then can you be freed from knowledge. Let the ego go—only then can the doors of love and the Divine open. And ego is not at all; bid farewell to that which is not. Fold your hands before that which is not—erase that which is not—so that That-Which-Is can be found; which always is, always will be; which is here and now.
You have listened with such love and peace—this delights me deeply. I bow down to the Paramatman seated in everyone. Please accept my pranam.