Maha Geeta #20

First, humanity has always been exactly the same. A few rare individuals change; humanity as such does not change even a little. Outer conditions change, systems change; inside, man remains just the same. So first drop this illusion that today’s human being has fallen.

Man has always been like this. In Buddha’s time people asked him the same question: “Man has fallen—do something.” The same question was asked of Lao Tzu, of Confucius. Search the oldest scripture and you will find the same lament: man has fallen. In Babylon a six-thousand-year-old brick was found with an inscription: “What has happened to today’s man? He has fallen!” The same refrain six thousand years ago. Every age thinks its man has fallen. There are psychological reasons behind this.

You don’t know the people of the past. About them you know nothing. You know something about Buddha—but about the people among whom Buddha lived you know nothing. The scriptures sing his glory; do not mistake those songs for the glory of that age’s humanity. If the people of Buddha’s time were truly elevated, who would have cared about Buddha? Lightning is seen only in dark clouds. Buddha shone so great only because the men around him were small. If there had been many like Buddha, who would have noticed him? Who would have cared?

Think: the Kohinoor diamond is precious because it is alone. If heaps of Kohinoors lay in the lanes, on the roadsides, on the riverbanks, who would bother about one Kohinoor? We remember Rama because the times were not like Rama. We remember Krishna because the times were not like Krishna. The times must have been like Ravana; the times must have been like Kansa.

Man has been the same forever. But about the past a notion forms that it was beautiful, because only the most beautiful people of the past reach you, the most beautiful songs echo down the centuries to you. The marketplace scuffle is forgotten; the finest remains. The flowers are remembered; the thorns are forgotten.

And today, those near you—you see their thorns; thorns everywhere. A contemporary enlightened person is hardly visible, because amid so many thorns it is difficult to trust that a rose could bloom. When a Buddha is present, trust does not arise easily—because the Buddha is one and the unawakened are in their billions. How to trust? But when time passes, the memory of that one keeps resounding and the multitudes are forgotten. Then all your evaluations get distorted.

Man has always been like this. The people of the past were neither superior, nor are you inferior. Nor were they inferior and you superior. Man is as man is. Things differ. It is certain that a man of the past did not covet a Fiat car, because Fiats did not exist. Don’t conclude from this that today’s man is fallen because he desires a Fiat. The man of the past desired a fine horse, a good carriage, a chariot. The desire is the same. The carriage has become a Fiat; the desire has not changed.

The man of the past was just as greedy, just as lustful, just as angry. Otherwise were the awakened ones mad to keep saying, “Don’t be angry, don’t fall into lust, drop greed”? What do your scriptures teach? To whom is teaching addressed? If people were non-greedy, Buddha would have been mad to say, “Drop greed.” People would have replied, “Who here is greedy?” For forty years Buddha went from village to village saying, “Drop greed, drop envy, drop ambition, drop ego!” Certainly these things were there in people—otherwise for whom were these medicines being dispensed? People were ill.

Your scriptures bear witness to the kind of people among whom they were written. One organizes treatment for the disease that exists. People must have been lustful; that’s why celibacy was praised so much. If people had already been celibate, what need was there to praise celibacy?

Lao Tzu has said: If people were religious, scriptures would be useless. He is right. If people were truly religious, what need of scripture? Or look from the other side: Krishna says, “Whenever there is a decline of dharma, I come.” Then why did he come at that time? Because dharma had declined. Simple: whenever darkness gathers and the saints are persecuted, then I will come. So at that time the hour must have struck.

Understand the logic: you call a physician only when someone at home is sick. When a society falls, efforts are made to lift it. So many avatars, so many tirthankaras—why were they born? Somewhere man must have gone wrong. So first understand: man has always been like this.

There are other reasons for this illusion. Everyone thinks childhood was beautiful, golden—everyone! Yet ask children; no child will agree that childhood is the golden age. Children want to grow up as quickly as possible. A child will stand on a chair beside his father and say, “Look, taller than you”—the proof of his ambition; he wants to be bigger than you.

A small boy in school made a mistake, and a teacher struck him. After hitting him the teacher coaxed him and said, “Son, see, I hit you because I love you.” The boy wiped his tears and said, “I also love you very much—but I can’t give the proof yet.”

Ask little children: they want to grow up quickly. Later only the memory remains that childhood was beautiful. How could childhood be beautiful? In childhood you were totally dependent, helpless in everything, poor, and had to look to someone for every need. How can such a dependent, unfree state be beautiful? But later only this much remains: childhood was beautiful.

Psychologists say there is a reason. The mind discards what is full of sorrow, because remembering sorrow is difficult. There is so much sorrow that if we kept it in memory we could not live. So we push the painful down into the unconscious, into the abyss. And we make a garland of what was pleasant. As we move ahead we collect the pleasant and drop the unpleasant. So whatever we say about the past is false.

The same holds on a larger scale for society. We think everything was beautiful in the past, that all golden ages are gone by. This is wrong in every way, because if the past were so beautiful, the present born from it should be even more beautiful. If childhood was so beautiful, youth—which comes from childhood—should be more beautiful than childhood. If youth was beautiful, old age, coming from youth, should be even more beautiful. And if your life was truly a delight, then death too would be a dance, a celebration—because death is the very essence, the distillation of that life.

But you see the opposite: childhood seems more beautiful than youth, youth more beautiful than old age; life beautiful, death never beautiful. This is because you keep dropping the painful and selecting the pleasant. You don’t actually get happiness—but the fleeting pleasant memories, those you decorate and preserve.

You come from those very societies people call golden ages, satyuga. This kali yuga has arisen from satyuga. If kali yuga is bad, the saying goes: the fruit reveals the tree. If the fruit is wrong, the tree must have been rotten, rotten from the seed. You are the proof that the entire human past was not better than you—not in any way. Perhaps it was worse than you; it cannot have been better, because you are its fruit.

So I want to remove this illusion from your mind. I am not saying you are superior; I am not saying you are inferior. I am making a very simple proposal: you are as human beings have always been. Therefore drop this worry and turn your attention to this: once in a while a few human beings have made a revolution in their lives. Forget about everyone. Just care this much: let light descend into your life; let your lamp be lit—that is enough.

“You are present, and yet man is going down and down.” I don’t see anyone going down, nor anyone going up. People are going round like the ox at the oil-press, circling in the same place. Blindfolded, they think they are going somewhere. No one is going anywhere. Once in a while someone removes the blindfold—of beliefs, doctrines, religions, politics—opens his eyes and sees: “Ah, I’m moving in a circle, like an oil-press ox!” He steps out of the circle. That leap outside the circle is sannyas.

Religion is never going to descend upon society; it will blossom in the lives of a few sannyasins. Religion is a great revolution—and revolution can happen only in the individual. In society at most there are reforms, whitewashing. The house remains the same: where plaster has fallen you patch it; where the paint is bad you repaint; where tiles are broken you replace a few; where a wall is about to collapse you prop it up—but the house remains the same. Revolution happens in the person. Revolution is utterly individual.

So I don’t see anyone going down or up. Society is exactly where it has always been.

Not humanity—only a few human beings! The humanity hidden in a few individuals does begin to touch that peak. But the number of those who do not is always far greater. At best, one in ten million sets out with the Buddhas on that journey into the infinite. Today you may think that in Buddha’s time there must have been a great revolution, or in Mahavira’s time there must have been a great revolution; but if you look at the proportion, you will be astonished. If Buddha passes through a village of ten thousand people, and even ten come to listen, that is enough. And of those ten who come, if even one truly hears—that is much. Just coming to listen is not the same as hearing. Today it seems to you that many people...

Right now, those who are listening to me are negligible. Those who are understanding me—more negligible still. And those who, understanding me, are transforming their lives—yet more negligible. With time, this number will appear large.

Today the number of Jains is not more than three million. If Mahavira transformed even thirty people, in two thousand years that could give rise to three million. He would not have changed many people. In two and a half thousand years the Jains number three million—thirty couples can produce such a number in that span. Very few were transformed.

Transformation always happens only in a few. Yes, in those few the hidden humanity begins to touch very high peaks. But rather than worrying about that, worry about whether that peak is being touched within you or not. Let it not be that in worrying about everyone else you forget yourself—and there the real event could have happened. In worrying about all, you will surely miss, and no one will be benefited.

"...thousands of eyes are fixed on you, that perhaps through you there will be a new renaissance."

Drop these delusions. Through someone else no renaissance has ever happened, nor will it happen. How many sages have there been! How long will you carry these delusions? They lead you astray. Because of them, the revolution you could make—you don’t; you sit and wait: it will happen. As if it were someone else’s job! As if it were my responsibility. As if, if it doesn’t happen, I am to blame! Then you will find all enlightened ones guilty, because that renaissance has not come till now.

I tell you: it will never come.

In English the word for that renaissance is “utopia”—and it is a very good word. Utopia literally means “that which has never come, nor will ever come.” It is only your longing—an impotent longing. Why are you waiting for another?

People come to me and ask, “When will an avatar be born now?” What are you doing? Give birth to the avatar within yourself! Why do you shift this responsibility? Onto whom? People come and say, “God doesn’t listen. So many sighs are rising—where is God? Why doesn’t he come?” These human tricks, these notions! With them you devise an internal strategy: we need do nothing; sit and wait—when he comes, then it will happen. Some messiah will come, some prophet will come, some incarnation will come.

Prophets have come, messiahs have come, avatars have come—and the renaissance has not come. When will you wake up? How many avatars, how many tirthankaras have come! Where has the renaissance come? Where has the revolution happened?

No—it is your delusion. It will not happen through another. The event will happen in you. It never happens in the collective. What happens in the collective is politics; what happens in the individual is religion. Do not impose politics onto religion. If people want to sleep, who will wake them—and how? If someone makes too much effort to wake them, the sleepers will kill him. That is what happened. Jesus was hung on the cross; Socrates was given poison. These people made too much noise.

Now, if someone wants to sleep and you get up at dawn and ring a bell, saying, “The morning hour has come—wake up!” the one who wants to sleep will say: at least let sleeping or waking be my freedom. If another comes and rings a bell, telling me to wake up, he will be angry—quite natural. And the sleepers are in the majority. They sleep. Those who ring bells come and go; the sleepers don’t even turn over. Or at most they turn over—and go back to sleep. Some get a little annoyed. If they are “good,” they say, “Maharaj, salutations! You are a great saint! But for now, spare this poor fellow; it’s not convenient for me to wake. I will surely wake. What you say is absolutely right.”

People say, “You are absolutely right—and now, please leave me alone.”

Who will argue? How will a sleeper argue? The sleeper says, let me sleep. Granted that it is Brahmamuhurt and one should rise then, and someday I certainly will; I will keep your words in mind, remember your name, worship you, hang your photo, install your statue, worship you forever—but for now, let me be! I feel sleepy. I am not worthy yet, not a fit vessel yet. There is home, household, children, wife—let me manage these; one day I shall surely move toward liberation, you are absolutely right.

That is why you worship and build temples. Your temples and your worship are parts of your strategies to evade. The wicked stand up to quarrel; the respectable stand up to worship. But to wake up—no one is willing.

We did not crucify in India—this is a land of gentlemen! We do not believe in beatings and brawls—a nonviolent country! A vegetarian country! Ancient is our tradition. We say: when folded hands and touching feet can get us rid of him, why hang him on a cross? And crucifying only creates trouble: you have to make a cross, carry him, hang him… Touch his feet and say, “Maharaj, prostrations! Please go!” We learned the trick.

So what the Jews did to Jesus, we did not do to Buddha. Perhaps an odd madman threw a stone, but generally society declared: you are an incarnation of God. We hurled a few abuses at Mahavira, but we did not give him poison, as they did to Socrates in Greece. We did not cut Kabir to pieces like Mansoor, as the Muslims cut Mansoor. This is a land of gentlemen! We learned a better trick. We understood: where a needle will do, why use a sword? Seat them in temples, make their statues, offer flowers, make scriptures—and what more is needed? But do not try to wake us up!

Society will never wake up. Society is a sleeping crowd. From this crowd, once in a while, a rare individual awakens.

So do not even ask this; do not talk this way. I am not ready to support your delusions in any manner. I do not tell you that through me a renaissance will come, the whole world will be transformed, Ram-rajya will be established. Enough of this madness already. If Ram could not establish Ram-rajya, how will anyone else? Krishna could not—he wore himself out, pounding his head! If Buddha could not, how will I?

No—Buddha and Krishna and Ram did not harbor such delusions; you harbor them. Buddha says again and again: be a light unto yourself; nothing will happen through me. Mahavira repeatedly says: go to your own refuge—what will happen by coming to my refuge?

Mahavira has said very clearly: I have awakened for myself; I have not come for your welfare—though Jains still say they are born for the welfare of the world. Mahavira says, I have not come for your welfare, because how can another do your welfare? And even if another could, that welfare would be worth two pennies. Your growth would not ripen in it; your inner evolution would not happen. It would be borrowed, stale. So Mahavira says: go to your own refuge, understand, awaken yourself!

“...When will a world of religion be created?”

Do not dream false dreams. The world will remain a world of irreligion. In it, once in a while, religious individuals will awaken. This night will remain dark. In it, at times, a few stars will glitter. Now do not wait for the whole night to change. Be concerned with whether I have begun to shine or not. If you begin to shine, for you the night is over. The day you shine, your morning has dawned.

I want to repeat again and again: this revolution happens in the innermost core of the individual! It is deeply inward, utterly private. It has nothing to do with the group, with the crowd.

They always have. There is nothing new in it. If they did not oppose, that would be surprising. They ought to oppose; it is their old habit.

The Jain scriptures mention a monk who went down to bathe in a river. He saw a scorpion floundering, going under. Lest it die, he lifted it onto his hand to place it on the bank; but by the time he set it down, it had stung him two or three times. And, as you may have seen, if you try to move an ant away, whichever way you try to push it, it runs exactly in that direction. They are very stubborn. The less understanding, the greater the stubbornness. A scorpion is a scorpion! As soon as he released it, it ran again toward the water. The monk picked it up again and again set it on the bank. Again it stung him two or three times.

A fisherman standing by the path said, “Maharaj, it keeps stinging you—leave it alone, let it die!” The monk laughed. He said, “It does not give up its habit—should I give up mine? Let us see who wins. If it is a scorpion, one should take it for granted that it will sting; it is doing nothing new. If it did not sting and suddenly said, ‘Thank you,’ that would be unsettling; one would not trust it.”

Whenever one tries to wake sleeping people, they will sting; they will be annoyed. I understand their side; I have no objection to it. It is perfectly clear: wake a sleeping person and he gets irritated. It may even be that he went to sleep after telling you, “Wake me at four in the morning, I have to catch a train”; but even then, if you wake him at four, he shows anger. He looks at you as if you were an enemy: “All right, I said it—but that doesn’t mean you should actually wake me up. I said it—mistake!—but now don’t pester me.”

Give medicine to a sick man, and even then he hesitates to take it.

People are like children—uncomprehending. Their opposition is perfectly natural. If you understand the psychology behind it, you will be amazed: they oppose precisely because the words are beginning to appeal to them, because there is some truth in them. Otherwise they would not even bother to oppose. They have begun to fear that this man may actually wake them up. The sole significance of their opposition is that they have become suspicious: if they listen to this man, if they listen attentively, if they don’t raise a smoke-screen of opposition, if they don’t fill their eyes with opposition, the thing might be understood; it might sink into the heart; the seed might be sown in the soul.

So their opposition is symbolic. They are saying that now either we must oppose or we must go along—only two options remain. That is why they have always opposed. I am not condemning their opposition; I accept it—it is completely natural. The day they do not oppose, understand that they no longer have any taste for buddhahood. Those will be dark days—when an awakened one comes and people do not oppose at all. People will say, “By all means, say whatever you want, do whatever you want; it entertains us—please, say it nicely.” They will clap and go home; no one will oppose. That day there will be real difficulty.

Remember, opposition means attachment has begun. Hatred is a form of love. Once a man begins to hate, it will not be long before he can also love.

Indifference is dangerous. If a buddha comes and people are indifferent—he passes by and there is neither opposition nor love; people say, “Fine, as you please; say what you like, live as you wish—we have no objection.” Just imagine such a situation: no one opposes, no one is for, no one is against; the buddha comes, speaks, and goes, and not a single line is left on anyone—those will be dark days. It would mean that people have lost even that much interest in buddhahood. They do not even oppose anymore.

Opposition is passionate.

A Jewish Hasid mystic had written a book—a very rebellious book. Hasids are very rebellious mystics. He sent the book to the chief rabbi of his country—sent it by his own wife’s hand. And he told her, “Don’t worry about anything. Whatever happens, do not get involved—just watch what happens, and come and report it to me exactly.” She went. As soon as she put the book into the rabbi’s hands, he turned it over, saw that it was by a Hasid mystic, and he flared up as if a live coal had been placed in his hand. He snatched up the book and threw it out of his house. He said, “My hands have been defiled; I must bathe.” He became red with rage.

Beside him sat another rabbi. He said, “Granted, he is rebellious—but he sent the book as a gift. You could have waited a little, at least let the wife depart! He sent it lovingly, as an offering. Let the wife go, then throw it away. What was the hurry? And you have so many books in your house, such a big library—what harm would one book have done lying there?”

The wife returned. The husband asked, “What happened?” She said, “The chief rabbi threw the book out at once; he became so angry I thought he might attack me. He acted as though a live coal had been placed in his hand. But right there another rabbi was sitting. He said, ‘No, this is not proper; let the wife go, then throw it away; or just keep it—so many books are lying about! You even keep the books of your opponents; this one too is Jewish; granted he is rebellious. Keep it, let it lie in the library—what harm would it do?’”

The husband said, “The one who threw the book—we will be able to change him someday. But with the other, we can never form any connection. Do you understand the point?”

With the one who threw the book, a passionate connection has already been made. At least he has that much passion—some fire arose! He did something; a wave was stirred. The one who sat calmly saying, “Keep it, toss it aside, it can lie on a shelf”—he is full of indifference; with him we shall never be able to make any connection. This rabbi we will be able to change, but with the other there will be no relationship. I am sad for the second one.

The wife was very surprised. She thought the second man was good and the first one bad. But her husband said, “The first man has already fallen into our orbit; the second is dangerous. I tell you, the first will pick up the book and read it. The one who threw it with such vehemence cannot remain without reading it—how else will he pacify that vehemence? He is already curious. I will pursue him; I will appear in his dreams at night. I will circle around his head. He will think many times whether he should have thrown it or not—‘Let me at least see what is written in it!’”

Those who oppose me certainly read my book—remember that. A relationship has already been formed with them. A tie of heart has been made; slowly, slowly I will draw them in. But those who do not even oppose—there it is very difficult. To find the door to their hearts is very difficult. All their doors are closed.

And this is perfectly natural. The more revolutionary the talk, the greater the difficulty. People live by tradition; they find comfort and safety in tradition. Change is the work of the courageous, of the daring. If one lacks that much courage, what else can he do but oppose? Understand his opposition: he is saying, “I don’t have that much courage, so either I must admit that I am a coward and weak, or I must prove that this teaching is wrong.” So first he tries to prove that it is wrong—that it is not something worth going into—and therefore he does not go. Otherwise it would become clear that if it is worth going into and he still does not go, then he is a coward. The ego would then be hurt. Opposition is the ego’s protection.

But once a person begins to choose between me and his ego, sooner or later he will have to choose me, because the ego gives nothing but hell. How long can you go on making that choice?

A natural question will arise. I said: take advice from everyone, take orders from yourself. Your question is relevant. You ask: how will it be decided whether what we are doing, what we are believing and following, the direction we have chosen, is an order from our inner being or just a game of the mind?

Come! Only by walking will it be known. I am not telling you that you will always be able to walk rightly. I have not said that. You will miss many times. But only by missing, again and again, does one come to know what is wrong and what is right. You will fall many times; only by falling and falling does one learn how to walk so that one does not fall.

A small child begins to walk. If he says, “I want a trick with a hundred percent guarantee that I won’t fall,” he will never walk, will never be able to walk. Then he will remain in someone’s lap. Fall he must. And when the mother says, “Don’t worry, you walk; you won’t fall,” she knows he will fall. But apart from falling there is no way to learn to walk.

You can read a book about riding a bicycle—everything may be explained: how to keep balance, how to pedal, how to hold the handlebar—still nothing will happen. Even if you learn the book by heart and go to ride a bicycle, you will fall two or four times; bandages will be tied on your hands and feet; the skin will be scraped a few times. But through those very falls you will have the feel of balance—what balance is. It cannot be known through what is written in a book. Balance is known only by getting onto the bicycle.

That a two-wheeled bicycle holds steady is a miracle. Falling is the rule; not falling is the miracle. But after two or four falls, a certain understanding begins to arise in you. And that understanding is such that even if someone has been riding a bicycle all his life, he still cannot give it to you. No one can say, “Here, take my understanding.” However much he may explain, still you will have to fall.

So when I told you, take advice from everyone, I meant: ask every cyclist you can. But don’t take it to mean that you have learned to ride. You will still have to mount and ride yourself. And I am not saying that you have a hundred percent guarantee that you will not fall. I don’t give such guarantees. The only guarantee I can give is that you will certainly fall—but by falling and falling you will learn. Many times you will wander onto wrong paths. But if you go astray because of yourself, you will return; if you go astray because of another, you may never return. Because the person who is walking behind someone else never comes to know whether he is going right or wrong.

For example, if you are sitting on the rear carrier behind a cyclist, you won’t learn balance! Though you too are mounted on a bicycle, you will not gain balance. You may sit for lifetimes on the back of someone else’s bicycle—there will be travel, but no balance.
And the real thing is balance.

So you start walking behind someone’s back… When you walk behind someone, you do it out of this very fear—“If we walk on our own we may make a mistake; better to follow the knower!” But it may be that the “knower” has a mind just like yours and is himself following some other “knower,” and they too are of the same mentality—and often people are like this—so you will find one man walking behind another, the second behind a third; the third behind yet others who are already dead; they were following others who died long ago; they were following others who never even existed. And on and on they go! They will never come to know that a mistake is being made, because there is no way to detect the mistake; this is a queue, and it is difficult to find its end. A mistake can be seen only when the end of the queue is visible.

Now, if Janaka starts going by Ashtavakra, and then someone else by Janaka, and then someone else… in five thousand years it will be difficult for you to find where the mistake is happening. It is a long queue. In it, even if Ashtavakra himself falls into a ditch, you will not know that he has fallen. His Gita has not worked; he is lying there writhing—this too you will not know. You will go on walking in a sheep-like herd. Only when, after five or ten thousand years, you too fall upon them, upon their bones, will you realize: this was a mistake. But by then it will be too late.

No, don’t mistakenly walk behind anyone. Listen, learn, understand—but always keep the responsibility in your own hands. The benefit is this: at least there is no queue ahead of you. If you fall, you will come to know that I fell. If you fall, you will know why the fall happened, from what cause! Next time you will not repeat that cause—this understanding will arise. After falling five or ten times you will get the art of cycling. It is an art, not a science. If it were a science, another could give it to you.
Art cannot be handed over; art has to be learned through experience.
So you have asked me: “The question is, until discernment is born, how can one know whether the voice arising within is born of discernment or just a trick of the mind?”
There is no method to know it beforehand. Only through experience will you slowly come to know. How will you know? Whatever is a play of the mind will always land you in trouble—always in trouble; suffering will come! And whatever is not the mind’s play will always bring a spark of bliss. That is the touchstone. What comes from within, from the inner being, its fruit is always joy, sat-chit-ananda. Whatever is the mind’s web will always bring you sorrow. You will know by the suffering. Only by doing will you find out what brought sorrow and what brought joy. That which brings joy is a journey moving toward truth; that which brings sorrow is a journey moving toward untruth.

You have heard, you have read, that there is suffering in hell. Better to turn it around a little: in suffering is hell. So wherever you find suffering, understand you are moving toward hell, falling into a pit. And wherever you find joy, where a wave of samadhi rises, a swell comes, a song bursts forth, inner rainbows bloom, fragrance arises, music is born—understand you are moving toward heaven.

Walking on, falling and rising, a person learns. Never make one mistake—and that mistake is: don’t sit still for fear of making a mistake. Mistakes will have to be made. Yes, there is no need to repeat the same mistake twice. So make mistakes consciously. And once a mistake has happened and you have come to see it, don’t sit there repenting that a mistake was made. That much experience has happened. It was a gain. Now tie a knot in your awareness that such a mistake will not happen again. In this way, slowly you will find the mistakes grow fewer and fewer; one day the mistakes end, and discernment dawns in your life.
I ask you this—you have asked: “If we don’t take instruction from others, how will we know for sure what is right and what is wrong? What is the mind’s trick and what is the voice of discrimination?”—I ask you: without your discrimination awakened, how will you be sure whom to heed and whom not to? The question is exactly the same. There are thousands of people, thousands of scriptures, thousands of masters—each with a different intent, a different vision—whom will you choose? Will you choose Mahavira or Krishna? How will you choose? For Mahavira says: “Do not kill even an ant, otherwise you will rot in hells.” Krishna says: Don’t worry at all; it’s all his play! Strike without hesitation. Who are you that kills? Has the soul ever been killed? Na hanyate hanyamāne śarīre. It is only the body that falls and rises; the soul never dies. Even if you cut with a sword, it is not cut. Nainaṁ chindanti śastrāṇi. Drop the worry—this is only a play!
Whom will you follow? How will you decide? Which of these two masters is right? People have invented a cheap way to decide: the house they were born into. If you were born in a Jain home, you will accept Mahavira. Is that any criterion—just the accident of birth! Born in a Hindu home, you will accept Krishna. How will you decide who is right? In the end, it is you who must decide.

Even when you choose a guru, how do you decide whether the voice arose from your inner being or whether it is the mind’s voice? You cannot escape. The decision is yours. If you choose me as your master, how will you be sure that you were not simply entangled, hypnotized by pleasing, logical talk—that you were hooked because it sounded sweet and reasonable—or that this man is truly awakened? How will you decide? What device, what touchstone is there? You will decide, won’t you! So the question stands exactly where it was.

Since you must decide, one thing is clear: existence has given each person the power to decide, and the decision cannot be handed over to someone else. You are the decider.

Listen to me, understand me. Try to understand with your heart, try to understand totally. But when the final decision is taken, you will be the one to decide whether this man is right or wrong; whether to follow what he says or not. Whatever you do—whether you walk behind someone or not, whether you walk on your own feet or ride on someone’s shoulders—the decider is you, the responsibility is yours. You want to evade responsibility so that tomorrow, if you fall into a ditch, you can grab my neck and say, “Look, you pushed me in; I was only walking behind you!”

So I am telling you in advance: there is no point in walking behind me. If you fall into a ditch, you will be the one who falls. And if you do, I will stand at the edge and laugh; I will say, “I told you beforehand.” It was your wish; you chose to follow me, even after hearing me. I had already told you that if you fall, you will fall. You won’t be able to say, “But we were following you.” You chose to follow me. I did not impose anything on you. Who can impose anything on anyone? How could it be imposed?

But man keeps dodging responsibility. He wants to shift the burden onto someone else’s shoulders so that, if there is some court of God somewhere, he can say, “I am completely innocent; this man put me into saffron robes.” And how can you be sure that God sides with saffron? Nothing is certain. Buddha chose yellow; perhaps God sides with yellow. Parshvanath chose white; perhaps God sides with white. And Mahavira stood naked; perhaps God is a nudist. What will you do then? You will know only when God appears. At that time you will not be able to say, “We knew nothing; this man told us to wear ochre, so we wore ochre.”

No—then you will have to answer for yourself. This choice too is your choice. If you choose to surrender to me, that too is your resolve; that too is what you have wanted. So always remember: you are the decider, you are responsible, and ultimately, whatever results, whatever happens, the credit—or the blame—is yours.

One who walks with this understanding is a seeker, a searcher of truth.

Risks are there. Life is risk. And the more risks one takes, the more capable one becomes of knowing. Those who do not take risks remain like lumps of clay. There is no edge to their life, no urgency, no gleam. There is no brilliance in their life.

Go and see: such lumps of clay you will find sitting in ashrams, in temples—ringing bells, performing worship, fasting—lumps of clay! In their eyes you will not find lightning; in their breath you will not find that energy which is utterly essential to attain truth. You will find them dead—like corpses.

So I say to you: do not become like that. Guard your individuality, and refine it. Whatever the difficulty, never lose your individuality. For individuality is your soul, and in that very soul the truth is hidden.

Buddha’s last words to Ananda were: “Appo deepo bhava!” Be a light unto yourself. Ananda began to weep when he saw Buddha departing; Buddha was going. Naturally he panicked. He had walked behind him for forty—forty-two—years. He had staked his whole life. He had seen nothing but Buddha’s back; walked behind him, sat when he sat. The day he left, Ananda began to cry—it was natural. He said, “I have not yet arrived, and the hour of your departure has come.” Buddha said, “I never told you I would bring you there. Be your own lamp! And Ananda, perhaps I have even been an obstacle for you; now I am going—let that obstacle be removed. Now there will be no back before you; now the open sky will be before you.”

And the astonishing thing is that within twenty-four hours Ananda attained enlightenment. What did not happen in forty-two years happened in twenty-four hours. The arrow pierced him. He understood: today Buddha has gone; now I am alone.

We are alone always. Even if you walk behind someone, you are alone; only an illusion is created that someone is with you. Remember this aloneness from the very beginning. Buddha told Ananda at the end; I tell my “Anandas” from the very first: be your own lamps. Then there is no need to wait till after I am gone to become enlightened in twenty-four hours; you can attain in twenty-four moments while I am still here. For to attain enlightenment means only this much: this life is mine, and I am responsible. If there is a mistake, if there is a slip, I am accountable. I take full responsibility into my own hands. I declare my ownership of myself.

That is why I call my sannyasins “swami.” Swami means: your ownership is in your own hands. With this I declare that now you are the master. No one else is your master. You are your own master. This is your sovereignty.

With this declaration the journey toward truth begins. And the day you experience this declaration totally, that day the goal has arrived—home has been reached.

It teaches but this one law: fire alone is law.
There is no life where there is no stir.
Where there is no searing heat, there is no thunder,
Where the wave of comfort is blindly preferred.
Those “truths” smeared with ash, dry and sullen—
Leave them; they are not right, they are false.
Those “truths” smeared with ash, dry and sullen—
Leave them; they are not right, they are false.

Living truth will be born within you. Whatever you bring from outside is garbage—collected from others, borrowed, stale, useless. Set fire to it all. Those are truths smeared in ash.

Your truth will be born within you. For your truth you must pass through the pains of childbirth. Your truth will be born inside you. You must become the womb for that truth and go through the birth pangs.

Have you noticed? A woman to whom a child is not born may adopt a child. That way the mind can be consoled.

I tell you: do not adopt truths. That would be a great falsity. And we have all adopted truths—someone is Hindu, someone Christian, someone Muslim, someone Jain. We have borrowed every truth.

It is Nanak’s truth; you sit as a Sikh—this truth is not yours. Nanak suffered for it; he carried it in his womb and gave it birth. You sit with it free of cost. You did nothing for it. You did not enter the fire, you did not burn, you did not wander, you did not fall—you got it for nothing.

Pain refines. Nothing that comes free is refined.

Do not adopt truths—give them birth. And when you become capable of giving birth, only then will the wave of individuality arise within you—the personal. You will become unique. Uniqueness is the ultimate fruit of religion.

And I also know that suddenly, today, you will not be able to gain the whole truth. You will have to move inch by inch, crawl—and the climb is steep and the mountain high, and your breath will choke, and you will have to drop every load, for not even a little weight can be carried upward. The higher you climb, the more you must lighten your burden. When Hillary reached Everest, he had nothing left. Even the water bottle had to be left a little behind, because carrying even that much weight became difficult. The higher the altitude, the harder it is to carry weight. He had brought all kinds of equipment; slowly it was all left behind. He kept discarding, setting things by the wayside, because dragging them became difficult. When he reached, he was alone—empty.

And the Gaurishankar whose ascent I speak of is the ultimate height of existence. It will not happen today. You will have to burn and be tempered inch by inch. Slowly you will be able to let go. But remember to let go.

Waves leaping length upon length.
I have seen the lovely moon,
Yet my hand remained too short.
Again and again the waves wring their hands—
Waves leaping length upon length.

What coolness she has scattered,
As if she set fire to the water.
Dousing and smouldering, the waves—
Waves leaping length upon length.

Upon the dreamland’s path of travel
Emotion staged a swayamvara of its own;
Failing, beating their heads—the waves—
Waves leaping length upon length.

Through instruction the moon begins to be seen; you begin to leap length upon length. But that alone will not bring you the moon. Instruction will not give you the moon—instruction will only make it visible. You will attain it by giving your own life a discipline and a command.

That is all I meant when I said: take instruction from everyone, but give yourself the command. With Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Nanak, Kabir—you will, for the first time, remember the moon, that there is a moon. For the first time your eyes, fixed in the earth, will lift and look at the sky. You will leap. Life will be filled with great exultation.

To be with a true master is a rare experience; then imagine how rare it must be to reach truth itself! To be with one who has found is also a unique experience.

Waves leaping length upon length.
I have seen the lovely moon,
Yet my hand remained too short.
Again and again the waves wring their hands—
Waves leaping length upon length!

Your heart will begin to leap, to surge: the moon has begun to be seen!

But do not mistake instruction for the whole—it is only the beginning, the start. You have to walk to the moon, you have to reach the moon. And you will reach on your own feet. No one has ever reached on someone else’s feet. Appo deepo bhava—be your own light!

Therefore the poet always lives in pain. A poet is never fulfilled. And a poet who does become satisfied is a very small poet; one should call him a rhymer, not a poet. The greater the poet, the greater the dissatisfaction. Something is writhing to be revealed. And when he tries to express it, he finds only small, petty words in which it does not fit. The sky of the heart is vast, and inside words there is no room, no space, no expanse.

So even after saying and saying, the poet cannot say it. Even after singing all his life, he cannot sing it. What he came to sing remains unsung. What he longed all his life to reveal remains unrevealed.

This is the poet’s dilemma: the feeling must be expressed, yet it must be expressed through the intellect. If the poet remains entangled in this, he will always be restless and unsatisfied.

A poet lives in two worlds at once; there is great tension. In the West many poets have committed suicide. Many go mad. And often poets take to drinking. The basic reason is only this: there is so much restlessness inside them that, except for alcohol, they find nothing to cast that restlessness into, nothing to cover it with. Somehow they want to forget themselves; the tension is heavy.

The poet remains stretched until he becomes a saint. He remains dissatisfied until he becomes a saint. To become a saint means the attempt to express through the intellect drops; the effort to express through thought falls away; and the poet adopts new ways. As Meera began to dance and to play her sitar; as the Bauls pick up the ektara, take a small drum, begin to beat the drum and play the ektara and dance. What great poets cannot say, the Bauls can. Chaitanya Mahaprabhu began to dance. What they wanted to say could be said more easily through dance. Words are not the right medium for that. So until the poet begins to reveal the mystery through his total being, the obstacle remains.

You are choked—that’s why you seem a spring of tears. The moment a tear truly appears, it becomes a smile; and when a smile is choked, it turns into a tear. A tear is the very name of a strangled smile.

That’s why whenever you have a good cry you feel lighter. If you weep to your heart’s content, a gentle smile arises on your face, a benediction descends, a rain of blessing pours over you. Hence there is so much grace in weeping.

Men have lost that grace. A little still lingers on women’s faces because they never lost the capacity to cry. Women have lost much, but they preserved one priceless treasure—the ability to weep. Men saved many things—power, position, prestige—but lost something invaluable: the capacity to cry. Their eyes no longer moisten, and when the eyes cannot grow wet, the heart slowly turns to stone.

So I will say to you, Pritam: if you feel there’s a spring of tears within—
“...choked for ages.
How can the rock of intellect be moved?
How can I burst forth and flow?”

And the question you ask is again of the intellect—“How?” You cannot remove the intellect with the intellect. Cry—cry your heart out. Who stops you? At first there will be awkwardness; then go into solitude, sit with the trees. The trees will not insult you for crying—“You look effeminate!” They will not say, “Pritam, don’t cry; that isn’t manly. Brave man, and you’re crying?” Go to the hills, to the riverbank. Weep! The trees will accept you; the rivers will accept you; the mountains will accept you. Cry to your heart’s content. Why ask “how” about weeping? Just begin.

Weeping is an act. There is no question of “how.” “How” only means you’ll first arrange, prepare rituals and devices for crying. What will you do—grind chilies and rub them into your eyes? Then the weeping becomes false.

Actors do that. In a Ramleela, Rama must weep—but Sita gives him no real pain; there is no Sita, just a village boy. Perhaps Rama and Sita even quarrel backstage. So what to do? They keep a bit of chili paste ready in the hand, and when Rama has to shed tears he dabs it in his eye—tears flow at once.

Weeping that is organized is false. Tears that come by contrivance lose their grace. There is so much all around—so much sorrow: weep at the sight of it! So much pain: weep! So much joy: weep! So many flowers have blossomed: weep seeing them! So many moons and stars: weep! What is lacking for tears? The whole arrangement is already there. And weep—mindfully. Sway with your crying. Dance in your weeping. Let the streams of tears flow.

In the beginning it will be difficult, because the blockage is ancient; perhaps you have forgotten how. Sit alone and wait. One day, suddenly, you will find tears flowing from your eyes—without cause.

People think they need a cause. “When someone dies at home, we’ll weep.” Death happens every day; why wait for your own house? Life is surrounded by death. Go to the cremation ground.

Buddha used to send his monks to the cremation ground to meditate there for three months. Corpses would come and burn, and they would sit and watch.

If you wish to weep, there is opportunity everywhere. There is no special need to hunt for a cause; causes abound. You see a leaf on a tree—yesterday it was green, today it is yellow. Keep watching that yellowing leaf and you will find your eyes welling. You will see it turn yellow and fall, breaking away, now lying on the ground. So will everything fall; so will you fall. Such falling is destined.

What bears fruit, withers. Whoever is born here, dies here. Even the greenest trees are encircled by the dark shadow of death.

Then sorrow is not the only reason to weep—joy too! Even amidst the encirclement of death, life is not destroyed—behold the miracle! Despite so many thorns, flowers keep blooming. Death comes daily, and yet children keep being born. God does not tire. Death does not win. Life does not lose; life goes on growing. However much death arrives, life rises again with new waves. Death keeps coming—and life keeps expanding.

See this awe. See this joyousness. Consider your own being. To be is such a wonder—that you can see, think, experience. You are. That is enough. The very sense of it will make you tremble.

So sit alone; relax; drop your notions. Look at the sky full of stars, at the river’s flowing current, at the trees rising into the sky, at the wandering clouds. Let yourself be surrounded by the miracle of this life-nature. You will find tears begin to flow.

I will not speak of a method, because you ask “How?” In the “how,” a hindrance will arise. It is the “how” itself that has created the blockage.

The intellect is not preventing you from breaking open and flowing. You are clinging to the intellect—therefore the hindrance. Keep this in mind. People think the intellect is obstructing them. The intellect is not putting up the obstacle.

Chaitanya Mahaprabhu did not lack intelligence. The only difference is that he did not clutch it. The intellect has its place; the heart flows, submerging it, inundating it. The intellect does not obstruct. In truth, where rocks are, the river finds music.

Have you seen? When a waterfall cascades over rocks, music is born in the fall. Without rocks, the music is lost; the fall grows somewhat empty—no noise, no tone; its voice is gone.

So I say to you: don’t worry about the intellect. Let it remain like stone, like rock; flow over it, flow around it. You will find that when the flowing spring of your heart strikes the boulders of intellect, a music will arise, a resonance, a murmur. That is poetry—the real poetry.

One kind of poetry is when a feeling arises and you strain to cast it into the words of the intellect—that is your present obstruction. Another kind is the poetry that flows of itself, striking the rocks of the mind; from that collision the sound that is born, the rhythm that arises, the humming that happens—that is poetry. In that poetry there will be less meaning and more rhythm; less grammar and more music. It may not be graspable within the mind’s framework, yet the heart will be moved by it.

This is the beauty of modern poetry: it has left grammar, old rhythms, measures, meters. New poetry is pure poetry; it has risen far above the old. Many do not understand it because most cannot comprehend what lies beyond boundaries, beyond grammar, beyond definitions.

The same has happened in new painting, in new sculpture, in new poetry. An explosion has occurred across the world—the explosion of letting the heart flow. Let the stones of the intellect lie; no harm in that. From those stones the richness only deepens.

And the poet needs love, needs prayer, needs God; otherwise the obstruction remains. Until poetry becomes bhajan, there will be a dilemma. Until poetry becomes prayer, becomes worship, becomes an offering, the obstruction remains.

Who wields the goad—
this too I do not know.
But by the lake’s edge,
what burns in my throat—
that thirst, that ache—I know.
A fire that never quiets,
that keeps fleeing open play.
Hopes collapse,
the clasp of arms grows slack,
in bewilderment I drown again
in the same unfathomable sea.
Again the agitated brooding,
again the eternal question:
What is the path of worship of form
if not the embrace?
What is affection’s gift to beauty
if not the kiss of savor?
Beyond the rim of the blood’s seething waves,
if there is a truth,
I long to know its secret—
and in the sky of the path,
of beauty’s worship,
if in that ether
I might recognize the line of the void.
But however far I fly,
this question has no answer.
In the vast clay-sky,
where can one come to rest?
All is void,
and below there is no contentment either.
From the earth’s heart,
the sky never truly departs.
Bearing this anguish,
in the measureless sky,
I wander, circle—restless, confused—
and find nothing.
The question I forge
echoes through heaven’s emptiness
and returns to my own ear.
I cannot stop anywhere;
thirsting, I return again
from the void to the realm of embodied beauty—
like a youth,
anguished by pain,
fleeing the battle,
who stops nowhere,
but falls—unashamed—like an arrow,
straight into his beloved’s lap.
Sleep is a spring of water,
a dense shade,
sleep is a dark monsoon cloud,
a cooling breeze.
But waking I see
desires burn like wicks;
as before they were frantic with thirst,
so now they burn—still parched.
This fire, life’s perennial companion—
take it with you
and walk from earth to sky.
The fate of mortal man:
until the current of love is found,
keep burning in your own fire.
The fate of mortal man:
until the current of love is found,
keep burning in your own fire!

Poetry is the beginning of a journey, not its end; its ultimate oblation happens in love. The poet’s heart only signals that a deep possibility of love is waiting, not happening yet. Love!

You will ask again, “How?” There is no “how” for love. Begin—just as one begins to swim, flinging ungainly arms. No one is born learned. Everyone must thrash about at first. Little by little, skill comes.

Love! Love the trees, love the animals and birds, love your friends, love your dear ones. Wherever a chance for love appears—do not miss it.

We are strange creatures—stingy with love. Even with those we say we love, we scarcely relate, as if something will be squandered; as if, by loving, something will be lost; as if, by giving love, something within will be diminished. Love is not that kind of wealth. It is not a strongbox where if you hand out ten rupees, you are ten rupees poorer. It’s an altogether different matter. It is like drawing water from a well: you draw out the old, and a fresh spring keeps breaking in. Remove the stale, the rotten—the fresh arrives. As you keep drawing water, the well stays alive, the springs remain awake, new streams keep bubbling up. The far ocean keeps filling the well. The soil in between filters; you cannot drink the ocean’s water directly—drink and you will die. But the earth filters the sea, and water rushes into the well. If you neither draw nor share the water—if you say, “My well will become empty”—then your well will rot, will die. Slowly, as the springs cease to flow, they dry up.

Now you ask how to open the springs—I have been blocked for ages, how do I open this spring? I say: distribute love. Invite people. Wherever you get the chance—familiar or unfamiliar, one’s own or other, known or stranger. Love costs you nothing. Give. It is not necessary even to give a thing...

Tolstoy writes in his memoirs: One morning I was walking along a roadside when a beggar held out his hand. It was early; the sun had just risen; I was in a joyous mood. I could not refuse. I had just returned from church after prayer, and that hand seemed to me the very hand of God. I felt my pockets—nothing. The other pocket—nothing. I grew a little restless. The beggar said, “No, sir, don’t be distressed; your desire to give— is that not enough?” I took his hand in mine, and my eyes filled with tears. I had given him nothing; he had given me so much. “Don’t be distressed,” he had said. “You felt for your pockets; you wished to give—is that not enough? You have given plenty.”

Even without giving, giving can happen. And sometimes even by giving, giving does not happen. If you give grudgingly, it isn’t giving. If your heart wished to give and you could not, even then the giving takes place—such is life’s mystery.

Keep sharing. Slowly you will find that as you begin to distribute energy, somewhere the ocean of the divine starts filling you; new energies come, new waves arise. And once you understand this arithmetic—it is not the economics of the world; it is the divine’s economics, entirely different. The world’s economics says: what you have, if you don’t save it, will be plundered; save it, or you’ll be reduced to begging!

I have heard: a beggar was asking alms at Mulla Nasruddin’s door. Mulla gave with an open heart—fed him, gave him drink, clothed him; as he was leaving, Mulla even gave him a ten-rupee note. Then Mulla asked, “You seem a decent man. Your face shows culture. Though your clothes are poor and torn, they look as if they were once fine. How did you come to this state?” The man said, “By doing just what you are doing. Soon you too will be in the same state. By giving and giving, I ended up like this. I kept distributing and was ruined in it.”

That is the economics of the outer world: here, snatch—and you gain; give—and you lose. The inner world has another economics. Kabir said: “Pour out with both hands!” Keep pouring, and the new will keep coming. Keep sharing, and you will keep receiving. What you saved is lost; what you gave is saved. What you distributed and gave—that alone is yours in the inner realm.

So do two things: share love, and allow tears to come.

And both will happen together, because they are two faces of the same event. The more love begins to be shared in the heart, the more the eyes begin to moisten.

This fire, life’s perennial companion—
take it with you,
and walk from earth to sky.
The fate of mortal man:
until the current of love is found,
keep burning in your own fire.
The fate of mortal man:
until the current of love is found,
keep burning in your own fire!

Today’s burning will blossom tomorrow like a flower. The fire of today will become a lotus inside you. But share. Love is the key. And in the realm of love there is no “how.” Give unconditionally. Do not even ask “to whom?”—that is the miser’s question. “Worthy or unworthy?”—that too is the miser’s question. Who are we to decide? Whoever comes—give.

And whoever accepts your love—thank them; they could have refused. They did not. You are fortunate. They gave you a little chance to squander yourself, and by that very squandering you will be filled even more—offer thanks.

When love enters life, prayer comes of itself. And until the capacity for poetry becomes bhajan, prayer, the poet will remain restless.

When your poetry becomes Upanishad, the poet dies and the rishi is born. “Rishi” and “kavi”—seer and poet—point to the same essence. The only difference is: the poet exerts to cast the heart’s feelings into words, while the rishi, without exertion, with natural spontaneity, lets feeling flow across the rocks of the mind. The resonance born of that flow, the music that arises—that is his poetry. And that is his offering at the Lord’s feet.

Yes, you are still entangled. And a man remains entangled in the wheel of fate until he is fully awake. The very meaning of the wheel of fate is that we keep moving in unconsciousness. Fate belongs only to the unconscious person. One filled with awareness has no fate. About the unconscious person, astrologers can make predictions. About the one who is awake, no astrologer can predict anything. Because what an aware person will do is not decided by the past. What the unconscious will do depends entirely on the past.
If your past is known and can be told, then your future can also be announced. You were angry yesterday, you were angry the day before yesterday, and further back you were angry—so you will be angry tomorrow too; there’s no obstacle in that. Because you will do what you have always done. You live by habit, mechanically. Fate means a mechanical life.

As awareness awakens, as meditation awakens, a person begins to move outside of fate. Then you are no longer driven by the past. Then there is a direct communion with whatever is happening moment to moment. That communion is immediate. It is not because of old habit. It is not determined by your previous experiences. Only the presence of this moment, the aliveness of this moment, the very sense of this moment becomes decisive.

But in ‘Dinesh,’ there is an effort to come out—and that alone is auspicious. If there is effort, coming out will happen.

I am not concerned with what you have done. Whether you have sinned, whether you have done evil deeds—I am not concerned with that; nor am I concerned if you have done virtue. For me, neither virtue nor sin has any value; because you did your virtues while asleep, and you did your sins while asleep. You were a thief—fast asleep; you were a saint—fast asleep. For me only one thing has value: that now in your mind the longing to awaken has arisen. Everything depends on that longing. That longing is the greatest event in life.

Main ki barbaad-e-nigaaraan-e-dilāārā hī sahī,
Main ki rusvā-e-may-o-sāgar-o-mīnā hī sahī,
Main ki maqtūl-e-gulo-nargis-e-sehlā hī sahī,
Phir bhī main khāk-e-rah-e-sāhid-e-nazarā hoon dōst.
Main ki barbaad-e-nigaaraan-e-dilāārā hī sahī.

—Let it be granted that I am ruined by heart-stealing beauties—so be it.
Main ki rusvā-e-may-o-sāgar-o-mīnā hī sahī
—Or that I am disgraced by wine, by the goblet and the flask—so be it; that too is okay.
Main ki maqtūl-e-gulo-nargis-e-sehlā hī sahī
—And that I am slain by flowers, by narcissus-eyed beauties! Fine, that too, I accept.
Phir bhī main khāk-e-rah-e-sāhid-e-nazarā hoon dōst.
—Yet I am the dust on the path of the connoisseurs, the seers. That alone is of value.

Within ‘Dinesh’ the connoisseur, the discerner, is being born. A longing is arising—the longing to go beyond longing. On the eastern horizon, the first blush of the sun’s rays has begun to appear.

No, I have nothing to do with your past, with your “māji” (bygone days).

You have been dreaming till now; now the first glimpse of waking is arriving. The sleep is close to breaking—that is what is valuable. Whether you were an emperor or a pauper, whether you were a saint or not, whether you piled up heaps of virtue or gathered a hoard of sins—all of it is futile. You did all that in sleep; they were all dreams. Now the hour of the dream breaking is near. Love for meditation has arisen—that is what is important.

And in ‘Dinesh’ there is a readiness to be effaced—that is what is important. Whoever is ready to be effaced will be freed from the past. Because you are nothing but a collection of the past.

When we continually say here, “Drop the ego,” it only means this much: forget what the past has made of you, disidentify from it, so that space can be made for the fresh to happen.

Bāvare, aherī re! Kuchh bhī avadhya nahīñ tujhe,
Sab ākheṭ hai.
Ek bas mere man-vivar meñ, dubkī kalonch ko,
Dubkī hī chhoṛ kar, kyā tū chalā jāegā?
Le, main khol detā hoon kapāṭ sāre
Mere is khaṇḍahar kī,
Shirā-shirā chhed de
Ālok kī ani se apnī.
Gaṛh sārā ḍhāh kar, ḍūh bhar kar de,
Vifal dinoñ kī tū, kalonch par mān jā
Merī āñkheñ āñj jā
Ki tujhe dekhūñ,
Dekhūñ aur man meñ, kṛtajñatā umaṛ āe
Pahanuñ sirope se, ye kanak-tār tere
Bāvare, aherī!

‘Dinesh’s’ prayer is audible to me:
Le, main khol detā hoon kapāṭ sāre,
Mere is khaṇḍahar kī
Shirā-shirā chhed de
Ālok kī ani se apnī!
And that is the auspicious moment, the dawn of fortune, when you can go to someone and say, “Erase me.”

Gaṛh sārā ḍhāh kar, ḍūh bhar kar de
Vifal dinoñ kī tū, kalonch par mān jā
Merī āñkheñ āñj jā!
Meditation is the anointment of the eyes. Meditation is to freshen the eyes, to make them new, to dust off the past!

‘Mere mājī ke talkh andheron meñ…’

“Were you entangled in the whirl of time,
or did I see you coming out of entanglements?”
No, you have not yet come out. But the first longing to come out has arisen. And the arising of the first longing is the completion of half the journey.

Here—I throw open all the shutters
of this ruin of mine;
let every vein be pierced
by the blade of your light.

Here I sit, holding light. If you are ready to open your heart, then death will take place and your new birth will too. The crucifixion will happen, and your rebirth as well.

But you must be ready to dissolve—utterly ready to be effaced! That is sannyas: to sever yourself from the past; to uproot your roots entirely from the soil of the past. Sannyas is the search for new ground. As if all that has been until now was futile; what happened, happened; what did not, did not. Now we drop every connection with it; now we will keep no accounts of it; and now we will not turn back to look again and again.

Raze the whole stronghold, heap it into rubble;
regard the failed days as no more than a smudge—
come, anoint my eyes.

I am ready! If you are ready, I am ready to anoint your eyes. There is a little discomfort when the eyes are anointed. Tears flow, and you feel like closing your eyes. All that is natural. But if there is courage, the Divine can certainly happen.

I am prepared; if you are prepared too, no obstacle can remain an obstacle. Leave the past behind; attend to what lies ahead.

Hari Om Tat Sat!