Maha Geeta #10

It is true that nothing in existence happens without a cause; but existence itself is causeless. The divine is causeless—there is no cause for it. Enlightenment means the divine. Enlightenment means existence. Then understand: everything else happens; God does not happen—God is. There never was a moment when he was not; there never will be a moment when he will not be. Everything else happens—man happens, trees happen, animals and birds happen; God does not happen—God is.

Enlightenment does not happen. Enlightenment is not an event; otherwise, if it happened without a cause, it would be an accident. Enlightenment does not happen: enlightenment is your nature; enlightenment is what you are. That is why it can be instantaneous, and causeless.

You have asked, “How can the greatest event, such as enlightenment, happen in this way?”
Precisely because it is the greatest. The petty always happens with causes. If samadhi too happened causally like other things, it would become petty and ordinary. Heat water to one hundred degrees and it becomes steam—if samadhi were like that, that you heat yourself with austerities to one hundred degrees and samadhi occurs, then your samadhi would be caught in the scientific laboratory; then there would be no way for religion to survive for long. Whatever happens with a cause will inevitably fall into the hands of science; whatever has a cause will be confined within the boundaries of science.

Enlightenment is causeless. Therefore religion will remain religion; science will never be able to cover it. Whatever is caused will, slowly, become scientific; only one thing will remain that will never be scientific, and that is existence itself. Because existence is causeless—it simply is. Science has no answer for it. How could the vast, the total, have a cause? For whatever is, is contained within it; there is nothing outside it. Samadhi, for this very reason, does not “happen”—because it is not petty; it is vast.
You have asked: “An event as supreme as enlightenment...”
It is supreme for only one reason—and for no other: it lies outside your petty law of cause and effect. If doing this much merit brought samadhi; if giving this much charity brought samadhi; if making this much renunciation brought samadhi—then samadhi would fall within arithmetic, into ledgers and accounts; it would no longer be great. It happens without cause.

That is why devotees say: it descends as prasad—grace. It does not happen because of your doing. It showers upon you—unbidden, as a gift, as prasad.

Then what is the result of all the effort and striving we do? If Ashtavakra makes sense to you, then you are laboring in vain, your rituals are in vain. No ritual is needed; understanding is enough. Understand this much: the Divine already is—then drop the search. Understand this: what we are is already joined to the Source; therefore give up the trying and running to “connect”—and the union will happen. It will happen not through the effort to meet, but by dropping the effort to meet. The effort to meet only increases the distance—the more you crave union, the wider the gap grows. The more you set out to seek, the more you go on losing; because what you have set out to seek is not to be sought. You have to awaken and see; it is present—standing at the door; in the temple within you. It has not left you for a single moment, never been separate for a single moment. That which has never been apart, from which no farewell has ever been, nor can be—you are losing it by seeking it.

So your rituals can have only one result: you get tired. One day your striving comes to such a pass that you are simply bored with striving; in that moment of weariness you drop the effort, and instantly you see: “Ah! What a fool I was!”

Yesterday I was reading a man’s life story. He wrote that he was traveling in an unknown city and got lost. He didn’t understand the language there, so he became very frightened. In his panic he even forgot his hotel’s name and phone number. His panic grew: “How will I ask?” So as he walked he kept anxiously scanning the street: “May I spot someone who understands my language?” It was some Far Eastern country—and this American! He kept hoping to see a white face, someone who might know his language, or an English signboard on a shop so he could go ask there. He was so intent, sweating, that he didn’t hear a police car behind him honking again and again—the police too suspected he was lost. After two minutes he finally heard the horn, stopped in surprise; the police got out and said, “Are you in your senses or not? We’ve been honking for two minutes. We suspected you were lost. Get in!”

He said, “This is rich! I was looking for someone to tell me the way—those who could tell me were right behind me. But I was so absorbed in my search I couldn’t hear the horn. I never even looked back.”

What you are seeking is right behind you. Certainly God does not blare a horn, nor shout loudly—because shouting would violate your freedom. He whispers—softly in your ear. But you are so busy—how will you hear his whisper? You are so full of noise; so much turmoil churns in your mind; you are so engrossed in searching...

Swami Ramatirtha told a little story. A lover went to a far-off land and did not return. His beloved kept waiting and waiting; she grew tired of waiting. He wrote letters, again and again promising, “I am coming now, this month, next month.” Years passed. One day the beloved panicked—there is a limit to waiting. She traveled and reached the foreign city where her lover lived. She found his house. The door was open, it was evening, the sun had set. She stood at the threshold and looked. She had not seen her beloved for a long time. He was seated there, but absorbed in deep concentration, writing something. He was so intent that even the beloved felt, “Let me wait a bit; let me not interrupt him—who knows what thread of thought might be lost.” He was so moved, tears streaming from his eyes, writing on and on. An hour passed, two. Then he looked up; he could not believe it—he was alarmed.

He had been writing to his beloved—the very one who had been sitting before him for two hours, waiting for him to raise his eyes. He wouldn’t trust it—he thought some trick, some delusion, perhaps self-hypnosis: “I’ve been so emotional about her that perhaps she appears like a dream. Is it an illusion?” He wiped his eyes. The beloved laughed: “What are you thinking? Do you take me for an illusion?”

He trembled: “But how did you come—and I was writing to you! Mad girl, why didn’t you stop me? You were right in front of me, and I was writing to you!”

God is right in front of you, and you are praying to him: “Meet me—O Lord, where are you?” Tears run from your eyes, but it is the wall of your tears that hides what stands before you. We are looking for the very one we are losing because of our search.

Ashtavakra’s point is utterly plain. He says: Stop this paperwork! Stop the rituals!

Samadhi does not “happen.” If samadhi were an event, then it would happen by cause and effect. If it happened by cause and effect, it would become a marketplace commodity. Samadhi is untouched and virgin; it is not for sale.

Have you noticed—your market-conditioned mind even puts God up for sale! You think: “Do this much and God will be attained,” as if he were a bargain! “Do merit and God will be attained.” Your so‑called saints keep telling you: “Do good if you want God”—as if you have to do something to get God; as if he isn’t already given; as if God must be purchased, with a price to be paid: this much merit, this much austerity, this much meditation, so much mantra, japa, tapa—then you will get him. You’ve put him in the market—made him a saleable thing. Buyers with merit will buy; those without merit will be deprived. You need the coins of merit—jingle them, and you will get him.

Ashtavakra says: What madness is this? Will God be got by merit? Then it’s a purchase. If what is obtained is obtained by a cause, then when the cause is lost, it too will be lost.

You earn wealth—you toil, you compete in the bazaar—and you accumulate money. But do you think money once earned will stay? Thieves can steal it. A thief is someone who stakes even more than you do. The shopkeeper works hard; the thief risks his very life: “We are ready to die or kill, but we will take it”—and he does.

What is gotten by a cause can be lost. God is gotten without cause. But our ego won’t accept it. Our ego says: “If it is without cause, then those who have done nothing will also get it?” That feels very galling to us—that even those who have done nothing will get it.

There in front, “Aroop” is sitting, laughing. Yesterday he told me, “I don’t feel like doing anything.” I said, “Fine—dive into non‑doing. To attain God, what need is there to do?” Even if I tell you this, you don’t quite trust it. Because the mind says, “Without doing? Without doing even petty things aren’t obtained—house, car, shop, money, position, prestige aren’t obtained—will God be obtained without doing?” We don’t trust it. “We must do something. There must be some trick. This ‘non‑doing’ too will have to be done.” So we coin words like “action in non‑action, non‑action in action”—but somehow we smuggle action back in: “We will do it in this way—but we will do it! How else will we get it without doing?”

I tell you—as Ashtavakra tells you—it is already attained. The very language of “attaining” is wrong. In the language of attaining, distance appears—as if it were lost. Could you live even a moment without God? How will you live, severed from God? Severed from the ocean, the fish meets her fate. Even the fish can leave the ocean because there are places other than the ocean—but where will you go outside God? He alone is—only he, everywhere; everything is in him. Where could you be apart? Where could you go? Is there any shore to God? There is only ocean upon ocean. There is no way to be outside it.

Ashtavakra is telling you: you never went far from him—therefore it can happen without cause. If it was never lost, its finding can be without cause.

Enlightenment is not an event; it is your nature. But—can grace shower without any doing?

We have become very small—impoverished—by the experience of life. Here nothing is had without doing, so we have grown servile within. We cannot even think that God can be had without doing. Our smallness cannot conceive it.

We are not small. That is why Janaka says, “Ah! I am the wonder! Salutations to me! Salutations to me!” Meaning: the devotee and God are both within me. Even saying “two” is not right; the one within me—out of forgetfulness I take him as the devotee; when the forgetfulness drops, I know him as God.

Think of it like this: you carried two chairs into your room, then two more; by mistake you added them up as five—but in the room there are only four. Whether you mistakenly add three or five or fifty—your wrong addition does not change the number of chairs in the room. The chairs remain four whether you count three or five. Your “three‑and‑five” is your business; the chairs are unaffected—they are four.

This thinking that God must be sought—that is your “three‑and‑five.” God is already found; the chairs are four. When the arithmetic is set right, will you say, “Oh! There used to be five chairs; now there are only four”? You will say, “I was making a big mistake; there were always four chairs—I had added five. The error was only in my addition.”

The error is not in existence; the error is in memory. The error is not in existence; the error is in your arithmetic. The error is in knowing.

Therefore Ashtavakra says there is nothing to be done. To change five chairs into four you need not carry one out; or if you had added only three, you need not bring one from outside to make four. The chairs are four. Only your adding and subtracting is wrong. Set the sums right. And when the sums sit right, will you say, “Without cause the chairs became four from three or from five”? No—you will laugh. You will say, “There was nothing to become—they already were. The only error was in my thinking; the mistake was only of the mind, not of existence.”

Devotee, know yourself—this error of addition. That is why Janaka could say, “Ah! Salutations to me!” What a madman I was! What a wonder—that I kept wandering in my own illusion! I did not know what always was, and I took as real what never was! I saw a snake in a rope! Silver in a shell! By the net of sunrays I fell for a mirage and saw water! I saw what was not there! And what was there—hidden by this māyā, this false illusion—did not appear!

Enlightenment is a great event because it is not an event. It is great because it stands beyond cause and effect. Enlightenment has already happened. The moment you are ready—the moment courage arises in you, the moment you are willing to drop your servility and your ego—in that very moment it will happen. It depends neither on your austerity nor on your rosary. Do not lose yourself in japa and tapa.

Once I was a guest in a house. The whole house was filled with notebooks. I asked, “A big library?” The owner said, “Not a big library—these books all have ‘Ram‑Ram’ written in them. I’ve been doing this all my life—buying notebooks, writing ‘Ram‑Ram’ all day long. I have written it tens of millions of times! How much merit must this be? You tell me.”

What merit? If anything, sin! So many notebooks could have served schoolchildren—you’ve ruined them; and you ask about merit? Is your head on straight? Writing ‘Ram‑Ram’ in books...!

He was shocked, because other saints also visited him and would say, “You are most meritorious! So many times you have written Ram, so many malas you have turned, so many times you have remembered Ram—why, a single time takes one to heaven; you have done so much!” He grew angry with me and never invited me again—“What use is a man who says it is sin?” He felt deeply hurt: “You wound my feelings.”

I am not wounding your feelings; I am only saying: What kind of madness is this? What is the point of writing ‘Ram‑Ram’? Recognize the one who is writing—that is Ram. Why are you engaging him in such work—making him write ‘Ram‑Ram’? Tell me, would you trap Ram, seat him down, “Drop your bow and arrows, pick up a pen, write ‘Ram‑Ram’—why are you roaming looking for Sita; do this instead.” Would that be sin or merit? And if Lord Ram, being a decent fellow, says, “All right—this man is after me; if I don’t write he’ll feel bad,” and sits down to write ‘Ram‑Ram’—then you have spoiled his life.

When you are writing, it is Ram who is writing. Who is this that is writing? Recognize that one. Who is it that is doing the rote ‘Ram‑Ram’? From where is this chant arising? Go down into that depth. Ashtavakra says: there you will find Ram.

What I am saying is certainly logical; but it is not only logical—there is a little more to it. I speak logically because of you; that “little more” is because of me. If I do not speak logically, you will not be able to understand. If I do not speak that which is beyond logic, then I would not be speaking at all—what would be the point of speaking then?
So when I speak, there are two in my speaking: you are there and I am there—the listener and the speaker.

If it were up to me, I would speak only the trans-logical, drop logic altogether; but then you would think I am mad. Nothing would make sense to you. It would seem like a logicless clamor. I speak logically so that it can fit into your framework of logic. But if only that much is understood by you, then you have come and gone in vain.

Understand it this way: we fill medicine in a spoon and put it into your mouth—we don’t give you the spoon to swallow. In the spoon of logic I am pouring that which is beyond logic. Don’t gulp down the spoon; otherwise you will get into more trouble. Use the spoon, but drink the nectar that is in it. Logic is just the spoon, only a support—because as yet you are not ready to hear the trans-logical.

If it is only the trans-logical you wish to hear, then listening to the songs of the birds will do the same work as listening to Ashtavakra’s Gita. They are trans-logical. The wind passing through the trees, the rustling; dry leaves skittering along the path, their rattling; the murmur rising in the river’s flow; the thunder of clouds in the sky—everything there is beyond logic. Ashtavakra is speaking from all eight directions, from everywhere! But there you will not understand anything. How long can you listen to the birds’ chirping? You will say, “Enough of this babble; a little is fine, but there is no meaning in this chirping!” That which is beyond logic is indeed like the birds’ chirping; but to bring it to you I build a bridge of logic.

Now, if you cling only to the bridge and forget the destination—if you hold only to the words and forget what was being conveyed through them—then you will have gone away picking up pebbles and stones from the very place where you could have filled your bag with diamonds and jewels.

Certainly. Understand with the intellect, but let the heart remain the master. Make the intellect the slave; enthrone the heart on the seat of the master. The servant has been sitting on the throne for too long. You do not live for the intellect; you live for the heart. That is why the intellect never brings fulfillment. Become the greatest mathematician if you will—will the heart find peace? Become the greatest logician—will joy awaken from it? Pile up as much philosophy as you like—will it create samadhi? The heart will ask for love; the heart will ask for prayer. The heart’s ultimate demand will be for samadhi: bring samadhi, bring samadhi! The intellect can at most spin a web of arguments about samadhi, can produce theories about it; but what will theories do?

Someone is hungry, and you hand him a cookbook: “Everything is written in here—read it, enjoy!” He reads too, thinking, “I’m hungry—perhaps this will work.” There are grand descriptions of delicious dishes—how to make them, how to prepare them. But what will that do? He asks, “What good is a cookbook? I need food.” A hungry person needs food. A thirsty person needs water.

You hand a thirsty man a note—his throat is parched and you write down “H2O,” the formula for water! He will sit there holding the paper—what will happen? In just this way people sit repeating “Ram Ram.” All mantras are like “H2O.” Certainly water is made of oxygen and hydrogen, but writing H2O on paper does not quench thirst.

Understand by reason; drink with the heart. Take the support of reason, but know it only as support—do not make it everything. Let the heart remain the master. In love and prayer, in worship and adoration, in meditation and samadhi, see that the intellect does not obstruct—remember this. The more it can cooperate, the better. That is why I speak to you with the help of reason—to coax your intellect, to win it over. If you agree even a little, you will walk a few steps toward the heart. If even a small taste is felt there, you will be enraptured. Then you yourself will stop worrying about the intellect. Once taste arrives, who cares for words!

They are logical. My whole effort is that what I say to you be logical—so that you agree to walk with me. Once you agree, then into the ditch we go; then I’ll take you off your tracks! Just consent once, let our hands meet once—then there’s nothing to worry about. Once your hand is in my hand, you won’t keep it outside for long. First I catch the fingers, then the wrist, and then… the person is gone!

So I make the first connection through logic, because that’s where you live; only from there can connection happen—there is where you are. This is why even atheists come to me; even atheists agree with me. The atheist has no quarrel with me because I speak the atheist’s language. But that is a net. That language is a net. It’s like when we go to catch fish, we put dough on the hook. That’s the dough. If you want to save yourself, beware of the dough itself—for once you take the dough in your mouth, you find it was a hook.

Logic is the dough; the trans-logical is the hook. I entice you. When a bitter medicine must be given, we coat it with sugar. Humanity is in the condition of small children: in the sweetness, even a bitter medicine goes down. You can even drink poison. But if the trans-logical were placed before you directly, you would run away. You would say, “No, my intellect cannot trust this.”

So I want to bring your intellect into trust. But if you stop right there and think, “Now the intellect is convinced; let’s go home”—then you have missed. It’s as if you licked off the sugar that coated the medicine, swallowed the sugar, and threw the medicine away.

“Does the satisfaction of logic confirm the mind?”
That depends on you. If you hear only logic as logic, the mind will be confirmed. But if in the midst of arguments you allow the un-arguable to enter, even drop by drop, those drops in your brain will summon the revolution of the heart.

It depends on you. Some people hear only logic as logic; whatever lies outside logic, they discard. Then they might as well not have come to me; come or not—no difference. They go back exactly as they came—only stronger. They select what suits them, what matches their own account. Whatever fit their logic they took; whatever didn’t fit, they left. But what didn’t fit your logic would have become the spark of revolution within you. What fits your logic only strengthens you—as you are. Your disease, your anxiety, your anguish will be strengthened. Your ego will be strengthened.

So exercise a little skill. That is why Janaka says to Ashtavakra: What skill! that in a single instant it was seen! What mastery! what consummate deftness! Keep that deftness in mind. It depends on you.

What I am speaking here depends on me; but the hearing depends on you. Once I have spoken, I no longer own what I have said. The arrow is loosed—it is beyond my hand. Now it is in your hands where it will land; whether you allow it to land, or you dodge it. If you let it land in the intellect, you will return from here an even greater pundit—more skilled in argument, more adept in dispute. But then you have missed. If you let it land in the heart, you will be more delighted, filled with awe; the door of blessedness would crack open; the rain of grace would become a little more possible; you would edge a little toward the nectar; you would have taken two steps toward the final resting place.

Do not go back a pundit. Go back a lover.

The two-and-a-half letters of love—whoever learns them is the true pundit.

Do not forget those two-and-a-half letters of love.

So listen to my logic, agree with my logic—but as a means. The end is that one day you gather courage and leap into the trans-logical. Through logic I will carry you as far as your intellect can go; then will come the frontier, the boundary; and then it will depend on you. Standing at the boundary, look—at your past and your future. Look back at the intellect by which you have come, and look ahead at the opening possibility. The possibility ahead is of the heart.

Through thought, no one has ever attained the wealth of life. Through meditation, through witnessing, through love, through prayer, through the nectar of devotion—people have attained. After that, it is in your hands. If you wish to remain a barren desert—it is your will; you are master of yourself.

But once I bring you to the edge, from where beautiful gardens become visible—greenery, valleys and dales, and mountains, snow peaks!—I only have to bring you there and let you see; thereafter, it is your whim. If you want to turn back, turn back. But then you will know you turned back because of yourself. The responsibility is yours.

So I take your logic as far as the point from which you can get the first glimpse of the golden summits; from where you can have the first little vision of the sky. Then that vision will pursue you. It will hover within you. The call will go on growing. What fell as drops will begin to fall as a strong stream—you will not be able to escape. For once there is even a small glimpse of the heart, the intellect becomes trash. Until the glimpse comes, trash and rubble appear like jewels.

“Isn’t there a danger for me that a logic-fed mind will overpower the heart?”
There is. Keep a little alertness. We can, if we like, make a stone lying on the path into an obstacle and stop there; or we can, if we like, make that stone into a step, climb it and cross over. It depends on you whether you will make the logic-fed mind an obstacle or a step. Those who made it a step set out on the great pilgrimage; those who made it an obstacle remained puddles.

The atheist is a stagnant puddle. The theist is a river rushing toward the ocean. The atheist decays. The moment the current of water stops flowing, stench begins. Water remains pure only so long as it flows. But for flowing, an ocean is needed; otherwise why would it flow? For flowing, the Divine is needed; otherwise why would it flow? There is nothing to attain, nothing to become—whatever has happened is enough…

Keep this in mind: in this world there are two kinds of people; the world is divided into two classes. One class is never satisfied with outward things—this house, then another is needed; this much wealth, then more is needed; this woman, then a different kind is wanted—never satisfied outside, while within there is no dissatisfaction at all. Inside, no unrest arises—only outside. This is the worldly person. Then there is a second kind: who is content with whatever is outside, but not content with what is inside. Within him there is a flame—a divine discontent. He lives in a continual process, continual transformation, continual revolution.

Let your commitment to reason become an ally in your revolution; let it transform you—keep this much in mind. Where logic starts to turn into a stone and obstruct the revolution, drop logic—do not drop the revolution. I say this to you: the final decision is in your hands.

From the surface of intellect one had to rise a little further,
Love had to pass beyond the worship of destinations;
What can I say, my friend, from where I had set out—
I did not even know which way I had to go.

The intellect knows nothing of where to go. Therefore the intellect never really goes anywhere; it goes round and round like the bullock of the oil-press. Have you seen the oil-press bullock? A blindfold tied over its eyes, it keeps circling! Because of the blindfold it feels as if it is going somewhere, something is happening.

Look at how you keep circling! The same morning, the same waking, the same day’s work, the same evening, the same night, the same morning again, the same evening—thus the whole life passes. Like a bullock at the oil-press, you keep going round.

What can I say, my friend, from where I had set out—
I did not even know which way I had to go.
From the surface of intellect one had to rise a little further,
Love had to pass beyond the worship of destinations.

When you rise just a little above the surface of the intellect, you rise into the sky; the earth drops away; the limited slips, the unlimited arrives; bonds fall, and you get a glimpse of liberation.

Love had to pass beyond the worship of destinations.
Then a moment comes—first, through the intellect, you move toward the heart—then a moment comes when you go deeper than even the heart.

Love had to pass beyond the worship of destinations.
Then love becomes free even of the beloved. Then the devotee becomes free even of God. Then the worshiper becomes free even of worship.

So first, walk from logic toward love; and then from love, walk toward the void. In that great void is our home.

You are in the intellect; you have to be in the heart. Therefore I begin with intellect and lead you toward the heart. Those who have reached the heart, I do not let them sit there either. I tell them: Come on, further—still further!

Let every new moment,
like a familiar love-song from the past,
be gathered into your breast; on the strings, keep stringing string upon string!
And let no melody that has passed run dry—
in this way, keep becoming each string anew!

You must take new steps into the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unacquainted! Do not remain stuck in the familiar.

Have you ever thought what “intellect” means?—the sum of what you already know. Intellect means only this: the collection of your past. In the intellect is stored what you have heard, read, known, experienced—whatever has already happened; only that is stored. About what is yet to happen, the intellect knows nothing at all.

The intellect is the past, gone—dead! The intellect is ash! If you get stuck in the intellect, you will keep wandering the tracks of the past; you will keep walking only in the known. Movement is in the unknown; in the known there is no movement, only circling like the oil-press bullock.

The heart means: the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unacquainted, the quest! Who knows what will be? Nothing is certain, because it’s never been—how can it be certain? There is no map in hand; it is a journey into the unknown. There are no milestones there, nor traffic policemen standing to direct the way.

But the one who journeys toward the unknown is the one who journeys toward the Divine. In this world the Divine is the most unknown happening—whom we never manage to know even when we know; who remains forever the Unknown. Know and know, and still it remains unknown. The more you know, the more you feel there is yet to know. The challenge keeps increasing. New peaks keep appearing on the summit. While climbing one peak, it seems the destination has come; when you reach the summit, only a higher peak appears ahead. You pass through one gate, and new gates stand before you.

That is why we call the Divine an infinite mystery. Mystery means: even if we come to know it, we still do not know. That is why we say the Divine is never attained through the intellect—because the intellect can only know what can be exhausted by knowing; the Divine is inexhaustible.

So do not get exhausted with the intellect. Do not bind yourself to the dead past. Tie your living body to a corpse and you will understand the state of the intellect. If you bind your body to a corpse—the corpse is dead; because of it you will not be able to walk, to rise, to sit; the corpse is rotting, decaying, and it becomes a burden. Intellect is a corpse; the heart is a fresh shoot—a new sprout of life! And even beyond the heart you have to go.

Let every new moment,
like a familiar love-song from the past,
be gathered into your breast; on the strings, keep stringing string upon string!
And let no melody that has passed run dry—
in this way, keep becoming each string anew!

Keep becoming with every new step. And keep your breast open—welcome! Keep the heart ready for every possibility that comes!

When the unknown calls, do not shrink back. When the unfamiliar beckons, do not hesitate. When the Unknowable knocks at the door, do not be afraid—set out. This is the hallmark of the religious person.

If you have taken, you have become a disciple.
Being a disciple does not depend on my acceptance; it depends on yours. A disciple means one who is ready to learn. A disciple means one who is willing to bow down, to hold out his bowl to be filled. A disciple means one eager to listen with humility, to contemplate in silence, to meditate.
You have become a disciple—if you have taken, in the very taking you have become a disciple.
Being a disciple does not depend on my acceptance. I may accept you—but if you do not take, what can I do? I may not accept you—but if you keep taking, what can I do?

Discipleship is your freedom. It is not anyone’s charity. Discipleship is your dignity. No certificate is needed for it. That is why Ekalavya went and sat in the forest. Look: Dronacharya had refused him, and yet he didn’t worry. The master refused—but the disciple was ready to be a disciple, so what could the master do? One day the master found that the disciple had surpassed the master. Ekalavya made a clay image and sat before it; he practiced before it; he obeyed its command; he touched its feet.

When Drona heard that Ekalavya had become highly accomplished, he went to see him. He was astonished—and not only astonished, he was frightened. So frightened, because Ekalavya had trained himself in such a way that Arjuna paled beside him. Drona cannot have been a great guru; Ekalavya was a great disciple. Drona was an ordinary teacher—very ordinary. Not a guru in the real sense. He may have been skilled, adept, but there was nothing of guruness in him. First, he refused because Ekalavya was a shudra. Is that the mark of a guru? Even now he sees brahmin and shudra? No—he must have been a shopkeeper type, a marketplace mind. A tutor to princes—how could he accept a shudra! He must have been terrified of society. A feeder of social conventions, controlled by society. Petty-minded.

The day Drona refused Ekalavya because he was a shudra, that very day Drona became a shudra. What kind of thing is this? But Ekalavya was wondrous! He did not even care about the guru’s refusal. He had already accepted the guru in his heart—the matter was settled. The guru’s refusal did not shatter his inner image of the guru. He must have been a rare disciple.

And then the limit of dishonesty was crossed: when Ekalavya gained renown and his skill came to light, Drona trembled; because he wanted his student Arjuna to be famous in the world. Ekalavya was also his disciple—but by Drona’s own rejection. Here was a great defeat for the guru. The one whom he had trained and to whom he had devoted all his effort was fading beside this man—who had only fashioned an unrefined clay image with his own hands and, practicing before it, attained mastery. Drona asked him for his thumb.
Strange indeed: he had not been ready to give initiation, but he arrived to take the offering! Yet Ekalavya was an extraordinary disciple: the one who had refused to give initiation, to him he did not refuse to give the offering. Such a one alone is truly a disciple. He immediately cut off his thumb and gave it. He asked for the right thumb—there was trickery in it, politics in it: once the thumb was cut, Ekalavya’s archery would be ruined.

This Drona was certainly a man of malicious nature. Far from being a guru, it is hard even to call him decent. What a trick he played—and on a simple, innocent disciple! And still Hindus go on considering Drona a guru, calling him guru. Does merely being a brahmin make one a brahmin?
Ekalavya was the brahmin, and Drona the shudra. His disposition was that of a shudra. That brahmin Ekalavya cut off his thumb—without the slightest hesitation. He did not even say, “What is this that you ask?” He did not say, “You never taught me anything.”
No, that very notion would have been wrong. It did not even arise in his mind. He said, “It is from you that I have learned. What difference does your refusal make? It is from you that I have learned! You kept refusing, and still it is from you that I learned. See, I sit before your image; I am indebted to you. You ask for my thumb—why the thumb? Ask for my very life and I will give it.” And he gave his thumb.

Being a disciple depends on you. It is not a matter of someone’s acceptance or rejection. So if you feel you have received greatly—then the matter is settled. Remain deep in this feeling. Never lose the feeling of being a disciple; then your growth will be unparalleled, and more will keep on coming. Discipleship is the art of learning.

Then the “wine” you were familiar with cannot have been wine; because wine is neither bitter nor does it burn the chest. That which burns the chest and tastes bitter is a counterfeit of wine, not wine. So you have, for the first time, tasted the real wine.
Now don’t get entangled with the false brew. You have entered the tavern for the very first time. Now make your heart the chalice and drink to your fill; for it is through this drinking that revolution happens. This wine will not bring forgetfulness; this wine will bring remembrance. What kind of wine is it that makes you unconscious? True wine is that which brings you into awareness. This wine will awaken you. It will introduce you to the one who is hidden within you. This wine will make you yourself.
Outwardly you may look like drunkards to others—don’t be disturbed! People outside may misread your ecstasy, think you mad, think you unconscious—don’t you worry; the touchstone is within you. If your awareness is growing, then whatever the world thinks, don’t be concerned.

A few lines of Majaz:
There is a Christliness in my words—
and people say I am ill.
Know me well: I am Asrar;
I am a seeker of the very substance of love.
My world is nothing but love upon love;
I am weary of the mischief of the intellect.
The “flaw” that was in Hafiz and Khayyam—
yes, I too am somewhat guilty of that.
What is life but Adam’s sin?
Since there is life, I am a sinner.
There is a Christliness in my words—
and people say I am ill!

Even Jesus was called ill; “Messiah” was granted only with great difficulty. Socrates too was called mad—that’s why they gave him hemlock. Did people consider Mansoor intelligent? If they had, would they have hanged him? And I’ve told you the story of Ashtavakra: his own father was so offended that he cursed him—“Be crooked in eight places!”
Jesus at least lived thirty‑three years before the cross; Socrates was old when he was given poison; Mahavira and Buddha had stones thrown at them—well enough; but look at Ashtavakra: he was not even born and a curse was laid upon him; while still in the womb his life was distorted. Had someone else done it, it might have been forgivable—but his own father did it; the very one about to give him birth became angry.
Words of wisdom do not go down well with people. Wisdom pains people. A man in ecstasy makes others restless. Be miserable—no one objects; be miserable as much as you like. People say: be freely miserable, no harm in it; everything is as it should be! But if you laugh, people become uneasy. Laughter is not approved. They suspect you must be crazy! Do sensible people laugh? Do intelligent people laugh? Have you seen wise men dance, hum a song? The “wise” are grave; their faces are long; their disposition is gloomy. Such people we call sadhus, saints, mahatmas. The more morbid a man is, the greater a mahatma he becomes. Let someone sit like a corpse—sickly, meek, broken—people say, “What austerity! What renunciation!”

I once went to a village. Some people brought a “mahatma” to meet me. They said, “He is extraordinary: he rarely eats, hardly sleeps; very tranquil. He hardly speaks or moves. Such is the effect of his austerity that his face shines like pure gold!”
When they brought him I said, “Why are you troubling this man? He is ill.” That is not a golden glow; he is simply hungry and thirsty—his face has turned yellow; he is anemic. And you take him for a mahatma? And how could he speak! He doesn’t even have the strength to talk. He looks a bit dull‑witted. There is no light in his eyes, no personality, no zest. How could there be? He neither sleeps properly nor eats or drinks properly. And you worship him! He has found one thing only: that by doing this, he gets worship. For the sake of that worship he keeps on.
Stop worshipping him for a while. You will find that ninety‑nine percent of your “mahatmas” will disappear that very night if you stop. Because they are doing all this nonsense for the sake of your worship; they will do whatever you ask. Tell them to pluck their hair, they will pluck it. Tell them to go naked, they will stand naked. Tell them to starve, they will starve. Only fulfill one condition: give them respect, feed their ego.

True religion is always laughing. True religion is always healthy, exuberant, a yes to life. True religion is like flowers; there is no gloom there. People mistake gloom for peace! Gloom is not peace. Peace hums. Peace is joyous. Peace is deeply intoxicating—your steps may sway; a sweet ecstasy surrounds you; you walk on the earth and yet you are not on the earth, you walk in the sky; as if wings have sprouted—you could take off any moment.
Good it is that you have tasted my wine; if you have tasted the real wine, you will have no need to wander into any other tavern.
“Know me well: I am Asrar;
I am a seeker of the very substance of love.”
Keep only one thirst—the thing called love. Keep only one demand—the thing called love.
“I am a seeker of the very substance of love.
My world is nothing but love.”
Let your whole world, your entire being become love—that is enough.
“I am weary of the mischief of the intellect.”
Drop the turmoil of the mind; step into the shade of love.
“My world is nothing but love;
I am weary of the mischief of the intellect.
The flaw that was in Hafiz and Khayyam—
yes, I too am somewhat guilty of that.”

The “flaw” that was in Hafiz and Khayyam, in Umar Khayyam…
Umar Khayyam has been misunderstood. Great injustice has been done to him. One day in Bombay I passed a hotel: on its sign was written “Umar Khayyam.” Great injustice has been done to Umar Khayyam. When Fitzgerald translated Khayyam into English, a great error occurred. Fitzgerald could not understand Khayyam—he could not have, because to understand Khayyam you need the sufi’s ecstasy, the sufi’s samadhi. Umar Khayyam is a sufi saint—one of the rare realized ones, of the stature of Buddha, Ashtavakra, Krishna, Zarathustra!
The wine he speaks of is God’s wine. The beauty he sings is God’s beauty. But Fitzgerald did not understand. A Western rationalist—he thought: wine means wine. He translated it so. Fitzgerald’s translation became very famous. The verse is beautiful; Fitzgerald is undoubtedly a great poet. But he did not understand. The sufi fragrance was lost from the poetry. And the world came to know Khayyam through Fitzgerald.
Thus a great mistake happened about Khayyam. Khayyam never drank ordinary wine, never went to any tavern. But he did drink a certain Wine—after which all other wines go flat. He went to a Tavern which we might call a temple, the temple of the Beloved.
“The flaw that was in Hafiz and Khayyam—
yes, I too am somewhat guilty of that.”
Majaz himself, whose lines these are, misunderstood Khayyam. He too thought wine means wine. Majaz drank himself to death. The wine you speak of—bitter, burning the heart—Majaz drank that and died young. He died badly, very badly!
The wine I speak of—do not, even by mistake, take it to mean something else. Do not commit with me the mistake that was committed with Khayyam. The possibility is there.
I tell you: relish life with a witness-mindfulness. The mind wants to drop the witnessing; the part about relishing is easy to grasp. Relish life—but if you relish without witnessing, you have not truly relished. Only when you relish with witnessing is it real. Drink wine—but if awareness is lost, you have not drunk wine at all. If by drinking, awareness grows, only then have you drunk. Beyond samadhi there is no wine.
In my view, humanity will remain under the sway of intoxicants until the sway of samadhi grows. As long as the real wine is not available to people, they will keep drinking the fake. Counterfeit coins pass only until real coins are in circulation. All the governments of the world try to prohibit alcohol; it won’t happen. They have tried forever. Sadhus and mahatmas keep pressing governments: prohibit alcohol or we’ll go on hunger strike, this, that—alcohol must be banned! But no one has succeeded in banning it. By different names and different ways, man keeps seeking intoxicants.
To my eyes, it is beyond governments to prohibit alcohol. But if the wine of samadhi begins to spread a little—if the real coin descends upon the earth—the counterfeit will vanish. If we turn temples into taverns, and there arise ecstasy and song and joy and celebration; if we live not by false notions but by healthy ones; if life becomes a benediction—then alcohol will drop by itself.
Man drinks because of sorrow. If sorrow lessens, drink lessens. Man drinks to forget himself—so many anxieties, so much trouble, so much pain—if he does not forget, what should he do? If anxiety, sorrow, pain lessen, man’s drinking will lessen.

I have seen a unique happening: some drinkers took sannyas with me. They got caught in a lovely mistake. They came thinking, “This man forbids nothing—drink or don’t drink, eat this or don’t eat that—no harm.” They were delighted. They said, “Your message suits us; no one ever told us this.” But as meditation deepened, as the color of sannyas soaked in, their feet stopped going toward the old tavern; another tavern began to call.
After six months of meditation one alcoholic told me, “Earlier I drank because I was unhappy, and drinking made me forget my misery. Now I am somewhat happy; if I drink, I forget my happiness. This is a great difficulty. Who wants to forget happiness? What have you done to me?”
I said, “Now choose.”
He said, “If I drink, my meditation gets disturbed; otherwise a soft, cool stream of meditation keeps flowing within—a gentle breeze. If I drink, for two or four days that stream is thrown into disorder; I can scarcely put it back together. Now it is a real problem.”
So I said, “Choose—there it is before you. If you want to drop meditation, drop it; if you want to drop alcohol, drop it. Both do not go together; if you want to carry both together, try carrying them together.”
He said, “Now it is difficult. For the current flowing from meditation is so sacred, and it is carrying me to such heights as I never believed a sinner like me could ever know! I tell no one but you; when I tell others, they think: he’s an alcoholic, must be drunk. They say, ‘Come to your senses; speak sensibly.’ I speak of inner feelings, they think I’ve had too much. They don’t believe me. Even my wife does not believe me. She says, ‘Stop your nonsense—these wise words of yours—you’re drunk.’ I say, I haven’t touched a drop for a month.”
“So I can only tell you,” that alcoholic said, “you will understand. And now it is hard to leave meditation.”

Take life in a creative, affirmative spirit. As you begin to be happy, those things you clutched because of unhappiness will drop by themselves. With meditation, liquor drops. With meditation, meat‑eating drops. With meditation, slowly the sexual energy begins to transform into brahmacharya. Let meditation happen.
So I invite you to drink the wine of meditation; to join the revelers in the tavern of samadhi.

Let me live this moment of joy, just once.
Let me stitch this torn quilt of dream.
Such clouds will never gather again;
if not with the cup, let me drink with my eyes.

In this satsang, drink—if not with the cup, then with your eyes! In this satsang, drink, and go back intoxicated. But let this intoxication not rob you of awareness. Let there be ecstasy—and within, let the lamp of awareness be lit.

Such clouds will never gather again;
if not with the cup, let me drink with my eyes.

Dharana and suggestion—autosuggestion—are the same thing. Autosuggestion is the scientific name for dharana; there is no difference between the two. But svabhava (one’s intrinsic nature) and dharana are very different. Svabhava is what is revealed when all dharanas drop. When every thought and every dharana has disappeared from your mind, then the vision of it happens. Svabhava is not something to be imagined.

A sannyasin once stayed as a guest in my home. Morning and evening he would sit and practice only one dharana: “Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman; I am not the body, I am not the mind; I am Brahman.” I heard him for two or three days. Then I said, “If you are, you are—why keep repeating it? And if you are not, what will repetition do?” Repetition can create delusion. If you go on and on repeating “Aham Brahmasmi,” you may fall into the illusion that you have become Brahman—but that illusion is not the vision of svabhava. If you truly know you are Brahman, why repeat it? If a man walks down the road repeating, “I am a man, I am a man,” everyone will suspect something is wrong: “Stop—what’s the matter? Why keep repeating it? If you are, that’s the end of it. Are you in doubt?”

“Aham Brahmasmi” is not for repetition! It is a single proclamation—a cry that arises once out of bodh, awakening. That’s the end of the matter. It is not a mantra. A mantra is suggestion. The very word mantra means suggestion. That is why we call one who gives advice, who suggests, a mantri. Mantra is repeated; with repetition a groove is etched in the mind, and because of that groove illusions begin to appear.

“Ramakrishna’s visions of Kali—were they entirely a matter of dharana?”
Entirely dharana. There is no Kali anywhere, nor any “yellow one” either. All is the mind’s dharana. And all dharanas must fall. That is why, when Ramakrishna’s dharana of Kali fell, he said, “The last barrier has fallen.” It was his own dharana. And when Ramakrishna lifted a sword to cut down his Kali, do you think blood came out? Nothing came out. The dharana was false, the sword was false—illusion clashing with illusion; nothing else happened.

“Is communion or dialogue with divine powers or with God not possible?”
No. Whatever dialogue you have will be imagination. Because as long as you are, God is not; and when God is, you are not—so how can there be dialogue? Dialogue requires two. You and God would have to stand side by side for dialogue to happen. As long as you are, where is God? And when God is, where are you?

“The lane of love is exceedingly narrow—two cannot pass through.” In that lane two do not enter; only one remains. What dialogue then? Dialogue requires at least two.

So the one you are conversing with is the web of your own imagination, not real divinity. When divinity happens there is no dialogue; there is a resonance, not a dialogue. A single tone, which the sages of the East have called the unstruck sound—anahat nada. A humming—yet it is only within the One; there is no conversation with an other. It is the rising of the sound of Om, but it is not talk with another—there is no second left.

No devotee has ever seen God. As long as “the vision of God” continues, the devotee remains—and then it is all imagination. That is why a Christian meets Jesus, a Jain meets Mahavira, a Hindu meets Rama. Have you ever seen a Hindu meeting Jesus—should Jesus appear by mistake on the road? They won’t meet. Have you heard a Christian say, “I was meditating and the Buddha appeared”? They never do. How could they? If the seed is not in your dharana, how will it appear in your imagination? Whatever your dharana holds, that alone expands into imagination.

Ashtavakra’s sutra is precisely this: become free of all dharanas, all beliefs, all imaginations, all projections—of ritual as such! Ritual as such is bondage. When no one remains within—not devotee, not God—there abides a vast emptiness. In that emptiness, day and night, there is a shower of bliss. In that hour, what dialogue, what debate? No—every dialogue is only imagination.

Sometimes the night surrounds me,
sometimes I call out to the day.
Sometimes a radiance ensnares me,
sometimes I scatter particles of light.
How shall I recognize when the life-voice is resounding
and when the mind is speaking?

I will tell you: the recognition is simple. Whenever anything speaks, it is the mind speaking. Whenever anything appears, it is the mind appearing. When nothing appears and nothing speaks—what remains is no-mind; that is samadhi. As long as there is experience, it is mind.

Therefore “experience of the Supreme”—these words are not right; for experiences belong to the mind. Experience as such belongs to duality, to the two. When nonduality remains, what experience can there be? Hence even the phrase “spiritual experience” is not quite right.

Where all experience ends, there is spirituality. Otherwise you can go on playing. It is a game of sun and shadow.

If you become reverent bowing,
I will become fragrant sandal.
If you are a pure icon,
I will offer life’s libation.
You are hidden like a pearl in a shell—
I became the ocean’s tide.
If you rain as the Swati drop,
I will drink a hundred monsoons.
A palmful of hope from dreams
searches for life’s definition.
If you become an auspicious lamp,
I will kindle life’s flame.
Silent penance, eager longing,
opens the language of the eyes.
If you place your feet upon the earth,
I will have swans peck pearls.
Like the musk-deer’s delusion,
the illusory cradle rocks.
If you hold aloft the mind’s lamp,
I will become a hundred, hundred salutations!

But all this is the play of imagination. If you wish to play, play. It is a pleasant play of imagination—very soothing, very full of flavor—but still only a play of imagination. Do not take it for truth. Truth is where there is neither I nor you. Truth is where the two have gone—conflict gone, duality gone; what remains is the One—Omkar, Satnam.

Why two? Three will do—
Hari Om Tat Sat!