Maha Geeta #22

Truth is timeless, beyond place. It has no relation to country or era. Truth is eternal, outside the limits of time. But expression is not timeless or placeless. Expression is within time; truth is outside time. What is known is not known in time; but what is said, is said in time. What is known happens in utter aloneness—there is no other there. But what is said is necessarily said to the other.

The happening of truth occurs in the individual; the happening of expression occurs in society, in the collective. So naturally, Kapila spoke to those before him, Ashtavakra to those before him, and Krishnamurti speaks to those who are before him. The difference will be in expression. But what has been known is indivisible.

Do not take this to mean that Krishnamurti is repeating Ashtavakra, or Ashtavakra is repeating Kapila, or Kapila is repeating Krishnamurti. No one is repeating anyone. So long as there is repetition, there is no experience of truth. A repeated “truth” turns into untruth. Truth that is known is truth; truth that is merely believed is untruth. Each has known it for himself.

And when someone knows truth directly, not even a trace of the feeling arises that someone else might have known the same. The event is so otherworldly, so unique, so original that each person, upon knowing, feels: for the first time—this ray has descended!

Just as when someone falls in love—does he feel that anyone else could ever have known this love? Countless lovers have lived on the earth, but whenever the ray of love descends into a heart, it seems: only I am knowing this love. Because love is not a repetition; you don’t borrow it from someone. When it happens, it happens to you. And when it happens, it happens to you for the first time. That it happened to others—you cannot even know. What it was like for others—you can have no experience of it. You only taste your own experience.

Therefore, whenever truth happens, there is an original proclamation. Because of this, followers fall into great delusion. They begin to claim: what Kapila knew no one else knew; what Ashtavakra knew no one else knew; what Krishnamurti says no one has said. This is the follower’s mistake. The same has been known—otherwise there is nothing else to know. And the same has been said. However many differences of words, however many differences among listeners—the same has been known, the same has been said!

Yet whenever it is known, truth has this quality: along with it arises the glow of originality. You feel: just this once! Neither has it ever been, nor will it ever be again.

When Buddha experienced truth, he proclaimed: Unprecedented! What I have experienced has never happened before. This is a statement about himself. But the disciples understood: unprecedented—meaning that no one else has had what Buddha has had. Misunderstanding arose. Then the followers of Buddha claim that what happened to Buddha did not happen to Mahavira, did not happen to Shankara. What happened to Buddha is unprecedented. Buddha’s own words are that what happened to him is unprecedented.

But the meaning of Buddha’s words is quite different. He is speaking only of his experience. He is saying: such a thing had never happened to me. This dawn has come for the first time. This night has broken for the first time. This darkness has lifted for the first time.

Buddha said: incomparable, unprecedented samadhi. But whenever samadhi happens to anyone, it is precisely incomparable and unprecedented. The trouble comes from the hearer—the listener, the follower, the sectarian. The moment you hear, a great obstacle arises.

I am telling you something; until I have not said it, it is truth. The moment I say it and you hear it, it becomes untrue—for what I am saying is my experience; what you are hearing is not your experience. What I am saying is my realization; what you hear can at most become your belief. Belief is untruth. You will believe; you have not known. And from belief, mischief begins.

Then conflict arises among believers. One has heard Buddha, another Mahavira, another Kapila, another Ashtavakra, another Krishnamurti. They have heard different expressions. The song is one, but from each throat the tone changes.

Do you know what acousticians say? Among the greatest discoveries of modern acoustics is this: just as your fingerprints differ, so does each person’s voice—a voiceprint. No two people have the same voice. Such is the diversity of individuality that even two voices are not identical. Repeat the same song and the mode changes; repeat the same song and the pitch changes; repeat the same song and the color changes.

So what Krishnamurti says bears the imprint of his voice, the stamp of his individuality—his signature. What Kapila says bears his signature. If you get entangled in these signatures, a sect is born; if you put the signature aside and try to see the essence, religion is born.

Within all sects, religion is hidden somewhere. Sects are like garments. Until you set the garments aside and seek the naked religion, you will not come to know religion. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Jain—these are all sects. These are differences of expression. It is the same thing stated in different languages, hence it appears so different. And languages can be many. All religions are like languages.

But I am not telling you to establish a synthesis among all these religions. Do not fall into that delusion. That would be intellectual. Read Ashtavakra, read Krishnamurti, read Kapila; then look for commonalities, gather what seems to match, and make a synthesis—this will all be the net of the intellect. Through it you will not come to religion. Where there were three sects, there will now be four—your composite sect will be added.

In a village some people were quarreling. Mulla Nasruddin was passing by. He said, Why are you fighting? This can be settled through conversation. Why draw so many swords? There will be blood, danger—wait! He gathered a few elders as arbitrators, and both parties chose five each to decide the dispute. In the evening, when Nasruddin returned, he saw a larger crowd and drawn swords. He asked, What happened? They said, Now the arbitrators are fighting too. In the morning only the litigants were fighting; now the arbitrators have joined the fight. Someone suggested: appoint arbitrators for the arbitrators. Nasruddin said, Enough! Now I have come to my senses. You should have settled it in the morning—this has only increased the quarrel.

The syncretists do not eliminate sects. Where there were three, a fourth appears in their place—the synthesis: “Allah Ishwar Tere Naam!” A fourth stands up, with its own claims, its own boast of synthesis.

You see, this happened with Mahavira. He said that all expressions of truth are true—partially true; no expression is the complete truth. So Mahavira launched a doctrine—syadvada. Syadvada means: I am also right, you are also right, he too is right; something right is present in everyone. Why should we quarrel? Syadvada means: the acceptance of the share of truth in all, so that there be no argument, no useless fight. But what was the result? A separate quarrel arose over syadvada.

I was speaking with a Jain monk. I asked him to tell me briefly the meaning of syadvada. He said: It means that no one holds the complete truth; all truths are partial. Everyone has a little truth. We see the truth in everyone; we are not disputatious; we are dialogical. After a while I asked: Tell me one thing—Is syadvada itself the complete truth or not? He said, Absolutely, it is the complete truth.

Now syadvada is the complete truth! And if someone says it is also partial, a quarrel will begin. “All are partial truths, but what I am saying is the complete truth”—this was the very quarrel. Syadvada was devised to settle that quarrel. Now syadvada too has become one more party, another controversy, another sect.

Had syadvada truly been understood, there should be no Jain sect at all—because on the basis of syadvada a sect cannot stand. Syadvada means that truth is in all, and complete truth is in none; therefore there is no place for erecting sects. A sect necessarily claims: truth is here, not there. Syadvada cut the very root of sectarianism. Yet a Jain sect stands, now defending syadvada.

Between these three—Kapila, Ashtavakra, and Krishnamurti—I am not asking you to seek a synthesis. I am saying: if you go into the depths of meditation, if you attain to witnessing, suddenly you will see that from the summit of witnessing it is evident: all paths come to the peak of the same mountain. However different the points from which the paths begin, their consummation is at the one summit. All paths arrive where witnessing is. How you come is your choice—by bullock cart, on horseback, on foot, by airplane, by train, by car, by bus. How you come is your choice. If there is even a little understanding there is no need to quarrel—someone comes on horseback, someone by bullock cart, each in his own way; someone comes from the mosque, someone from the temple; one through prayer, one through meditation; someone by dancing, someone by sitting silently. But if witnessing is awakening, if a ray of awareness is breaking within you—if dawn is coming, if alertness is deepening—then you no longer live in unconsciousness; you have begun to live in awareness, and the shadow of compassion and love begins to fall across your life; anger and violence begin to be dissolved from your life.

There are just two things to be known. They are two sides of the same coin. When meditation happens within, love happens without. When love happens without, meditation inevitably happens within. If you take up prayer, love will arise and meditation will follow it. If you take up meditation, meditation will arise and prayer will come in its wake. Master either of the two, and the other is accomplished of itself.

Only upon arriving at witnessing will you have the felt sense of harmony among the truths of the whole world. That is the experience I am pointing toward. Do not try to fabricate an intellectual synthesis.

Certainly all rituals are hocus‑pocus. But that does not mean you should not use them. It’s like my telling you: get into the boat, and when you reach the far shore, get off. You say I’m putting you in a bind—“With one hand you say, ‘Board,’ and at once you say, ‘Disembark.’ If we have to get off anyway, why board at all? And if we have boarded, why get off?” But there is no contradiction in it. You will have to get into the boat—and you will have to get out of it.

In this world there are two kinds of crazies. They are very logical people. Logic can be quite deranged. Fair enough, here’s their logic.

I have heard: a group was going on pilgrimage to Haridwar. The train was jam‑packed. One man was struggling hard but could not get on. Someone joked, “Why are you killing yourself to board? You’ll have to get off anyway!” The man must have been a great thinker—he gave up at once. His companions who had squeezed inside shouted, “Why are you standing there? The train’s about to leave—get on!” He said, “You don’t understand—we’ll have to get off. If we’re going to get off, why all this pushing to get on? I’ve understood; I’ll just get off here.”

They panicked as the train was about to move. They came down and forcibly pushed him in. He screamed, “What are you doing? If we have to get off, why get into this mess?” They paid no heed. “We’ll argue later—first get in! How can we leave you here in a strange place?”

Somehow they shoved him in. It was tough—there was a crowd, and he was creating a scene because he wanted to get off. They reached Haridwar. Now came the trouble of getting him out. He refused to disembark. “Once we’ve boarded, why get off again and again? Then we’ll have to go through the hassle of boarding again. We’ll just stay on. Leave me here; you go.”

Now they were dragging him off. He shouted, “How inconsistent you are! A moment ago you made me board; a moment later you’re making me get off—see the inconsistency! You’re putting me in a dilemma. Just tell me one clear formula: either always board or always get off, and I’ll settle it.”

If you try to run life by such logic, you will miss badly. If you never board, you will never reach the pilgrimage. And if you just keep sitting in the train, you will not reach either.

That’s why I say: meditate—and also remember that one day meditation, too, has to be dropped. I tell you both. You would prefer I say just one thing, to make it convenient for you. You are concerned with convenience, not with sadhana. You seek comfort, not revolution.

For convenience there are two easy options. I could say, “Don’t do anything,” as Krishnamurti says—their statement is straight: there is no need to meditate. Those who do not want to meditate have gathered around him; although nothing has happened to them.

People come to me and say, “We are tired of listening to Krishnamurti. We even understand that there is nothing in meditation and such—but still nothing has happened to us. Nothing has happened, and we’ve understood there’s nothing in meditation.”

They stayed on this shore; they never boarded the boat. On the other side stand Mahesh Yogi and those like him who say, “Meditate, meditate, meditate—do it!” and never say there will be a time to drop it. So some just keep chanting “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram.” Life passes. They also come to me: “We are tired of chanting Ram—how long do we go on? And meditation cannot be dropped; meditation is religion’s method.”

Try to understand my position. I say: begin meditation. Otherwise there is a danger you will sit contented with Krishnamurti’s last word. It is true—you must leave the boat—but on that shore, not on this one. Krishnamurti left the boat, therefore he tells you to leave it—but that is the far‑shore statement, not for this shore. If you leave it on this side, you will never reach the other. You have seen Krishnamurti getting off the boat—true; but don’t you get off, because you are still on this side. If you get off now you will be lost. And you have seen Mahesh Yogi boarding the boat—also true; but don’t just sit there forever. When the far bank arrives, remember to get off.

So when I say these seemingly contradictory things—meditate, and also drop meditation—these are two‑shore statements. Begin from this bank; drop it on the other. If I say only “meditate,” a danger arises: when the time to drop comes, you won’t be able to. If I say only “drop it,” you won’t begin in the first place—then what will you drop?

I say: earn, and then give it away! There is joy in earning; there is great joy in giving. There is much rasa in meditation; and there is the supreme rasa in dropping meditation.

You need not be confused. It’s simple and clear. I want to use both opposites. You want a non‑contradictory statement that gives you no trouble, so you can become a rule‑bound line‑follower and march on. You are so eager to become a slave to a single formula—just hand you a flag and you’ll march forever.

Of course there is contradiction in what I say, because life itself is woven of contradictions. There is birth, there is death—contradiction. You don’t protest to life, “What is this? If you give birth, why do you kill? And if you must kill, stop giving birth.” Even if you say it, existence will not listen; many have said it many times. But existence gives birth and it gives death. With one hand it gives birth, with the other it takes it back. Night comes, day comes. Heat arrives, cold arrives. Seasons change. This is the very music of life. Here opposites meet. If life were flat and one‑sided, it would have no juice, no richness. Here contrary forces meet and give birth to an unparalleled music. Between birth and death plays the dance of life; its rasa is relished.

That is what I am telling you: meditate, and keep in mind that it is to be dropped. One day the method has to be immersed.

You see, Hindus are very skillful in this regard. They make an image of Ganesha out of clay, worship it—and then consign it to the sea. No other religion in the world is so courageous. Elsewhere, if the idol is installed in the temple, the question of removing it never arises—“Now the worship must go on.” Look at the Hindu courage! First they make it—of clay. Having made it of clay, they superimpose the divine. There is dance, song, prayer, worship. Then they say, “Now, sir, we have other work to do! Please rest in the ocean; we’ll bring you again next year.”

See the courage! What does it mean? It has a great symbolic meaning: use the ritual, then consign it to the sea. Use the method, then do not be bound by it. In a world where everything comes and goes, make God—and unmake Him. Do with God what God does with you—that is the dharma of a gentleman. He makes you and dissolves you—learn His art. Make Him—and immerse Him.

And when Hindus make the image, with what feeling! People of other religions are amazed. With what devotion they fashion it, how they paint it, how beautiful they make it, how much they spend! They toil for months. When it is ready, how lovingly they worship—flowers, arati, bhajan, kirtan. And they are astonishing people—then comes the day of immersion. Off they go with band and drum, dancing. Birth is a dance; death should be a dance too. They go to consign God! Birth had happened; now it is time for death.

In this world whatever is made will unmake. In this world use everything, and be bound by nothing—not even by God. I do not say that Hindus have a precise understanding of what they do. But those who began this journey surely had that insight. People may have forgotten. Now they may not know what they are doing; they do it in a trance of tradition—make and immerse because it has always been done. But understand the essence. The essence is simply this: the method is used, then one is not bound by it. The ritual is completed, then dissolved.

That is what I tell you: dance, jump, meditate, worship, pray—but don’t get entangled. This is a path, a way; it is not the goal. When the goal arrives, don’t say, “I am such an old traveler—now should I abandon the road? Abandon it! I have walked this road for lives—now that the destination has come, should I betray the road? Become a traitor? The road has been my companion and has brought me here; should I leave it? I can leave the destination, not the road.” Understand what a foolish state that would be. It was for the sake of the goal that you took up the road; the relationship with the road was meant to be broken.

The very success of the road is that the day comes when it must be left.

Among the supreme sutras of meditation is this: when the hour arrives that meditation can be dropped, your meditation is complete. Until it can fall away, know it is still unripe. When the fruit ripens, it drops from the tree. When the fruit of meditation ripens, meditation too drops. When the fruit of meditation falls, samadhi blossoms.

Patanjali has divided the process of meditation into three parts: dharana, dhyana, samadhi. Dharana is a little footpath that joins you to the highway; the highway does not pass where you are. A small path connects you to it—dharana. Then the highway—dhyana. Then the highway connects you to the destination—the temple, the ultimate goal. Dharana is left behind when dhyana begins. Dhyana is left behind when samadhi arrives.

Therefore meditate—with the same devotion with which Hindus fashion Ganesha, with that very awe and love! Do not harbor the thought, “If this has to be dropped, why take pains—why paint it? Why worry whether it is beautiful or ugly? Smear any color; whether the face looks right or not, whether the eyes bulge or not, the nose is formed or not—what’s the point? In four days it will be sent off anyway; then somehow do the worship.” No—then it is not worship at all, and the hour of immersion will never come. If Ganesha is never made, how will there be immersion?

So when you meditate, do it as if your whole life were at stake. Only then will that great hour arrive, that moment of supreme good fortune—when you will find the time for immersion has come: now drop meditation too; now go beyond meditation—now samadhi; now resolution; now the destination.

So I tell you this paradox: only those who do meditation totally will one day be able to drop it totally. Those who did it lukewarm, half‑hearted—who never boiled and became steam—will never see the hour of dropping. They will be stuck on this shore.

There is a story in the Jain scriptures. A monk was bathing. He saw a man get into a boat and start rowing, but he looked puzzled. The monk began to laugh. The man asked, “Brother, perhaps you know what the matter is—why won’t this boat move?” The monk said, “Good sir! The boat is tied to the peg on the bank. Rowing will do nothing. First untie the rope!”

They keep rowing—faster and faster. Thinking, “Maybe rowing slowly doesn’t move it—row harder.” They are bathed in sweat. But the boat is tied to the bank. It has not been released. Before rowing, one must first cast off from the shore.

If you meditate with half a heart, the boat will never leave the bank. You will never reach the other shore. The time to disembark will never come.

Ashtavakra told Janaka, “All rituals are bondage.” He spoke absolutely rightly. But remember—those words were spoken on the far shore. That is why I call his Gita the Mahagita. I call Krishna’s Gita simply the Gita; Ashtavakra’s Gita, the Mahagita. Krishna’s Gita is spoken to Arjuna on this shore. He is not willing to board the boat at all. He wants to run away. He says, “Let me take sannyas. I won’t board—what’s the point? Let me go.” He is fleeing. “My limbs have gone weak; my Gandiva has slipped. I won’t get on.” He sits in the chariot, limp. “I don’t want to board the boat.” Krishna keeps holding him, explaining, and finally sits him in the boat. Krishna’s Gita is only the Gita; it is for seating Arjuna in the boat on this shore. Ashtavakra’s Gita is the Mahagita; it speaks from the far shore. Janaka is on the far side, but perhaps not ready to get out of the boat—or having traveled so long in it, he has made a home in it.

Ashtavakra says: Come down. All rituals are bondage—drop the ritual!

Krishna says: Enter the struggle—do not run away! Surrender all to the divine. Do what he makes you do. Become a mere instrument. You must board this boat. This is your destiny, your fate.

If Arjuna boards—he did board, obeying Krishna—then there is a danger. He was a very logical man. One day he will need Ashtavakra, because he will not get off on the other shore. He created such a fuss about boarding; he will create no less, and perhaps more, about disembarking. “Krishna made me board. Now to get off would be a kind of betrayal. It would be deceiving my guru. It was with great difficulty that I got on, and now you come to take me off? I was saying from the start I didn’t want to board. What kind of game is this?”

And Ashtavakra says, “All rituals are bondage. Meditation is bondage, dharana is bondage, yoga is bondage, worship and prayer are bondage—everything is bondage.”

Krishna’s Gita is for the one who is learning the ABC of the inner journey. Ashtavakra’s Gita is for the one who has completed all lessons—the time of convocation has come. Krishna’s Gita is the initiation discourse. Ashtavakra’s Gita is the graduation discourse. Between these two Gitas the whole journey is completed. One seats you in the methods; the other takes you out of them. One tells how to fashion Ganesha—with devotion, with color and love; the other tells how to immerse him, dancing and singing.

As life is between birth and death, so the experience of the divine is between boarding the boat and getting out of it.

Hold you? I’ll give you a push! Such an auspicious hour has arrived, and you say, please hold me? This is exactly what I want to happen to everyone—what has happened to you.

What I am saying is not words—it is music. And if you want to hear it, the best way to hear is to become a participant in my music. In this rhythm of mine, at least strike the tanpura. Don’t stand off at a distance. Become a part of this orchestra; only then will you understand.

Good is happening; a fortunate event is unfolding. Do not be afraid. Beat time on the drums! Pluck the tanpura! Sing with me, dance with me. In this very dance you will be lost. And in this losing, your real being will begin. In this dance you will be immersed; your boundaries will dissolve into the boundless. Suddenly, for the first time you will awaken and find who you are. In this very losing, sleep breaks, and awakening happens.

And you say, Lord, hold me! I understand your hitch too; I understand your question. Because when someone begins to drown like this, panic is natural—What is happening? Am I going mad? What vina, what tabla here?

Even to ask, you would have been afraid. When I read your question, many laughed too. They felt, what madness is this? You too must have felt, what madness is this? What am I doing? I came to listen, and here I am playing tabla? What kind of tanpura have I taken up? What sort of fantasy am I entangled in—could this be hypnosis? Some derangement of the mind? What wave is rising in me?

Don’t panic; this very wave will carry you to the other shore. This very wave will become the boat. I am telling you to mount this wave. Climb aboard. Don’t miss this wave. If it sinks you—sink. If it lifts you—rise; if it sinks you—sink. Make your very being one with this wave. Don’t fight it. Don’t swim against it. Don’t try to escape it.

Who is it that calls me to the farther shore,
like music from afar—who is he?
The one who is calling you is, for now, a distant music. If you begin to sound the tanpura with it, it will come near.

Who is it that calls me to the farther shore,
like music from afar—who is he?
For now the music is distant. Become a participant.

There is one way of listening: you listen with neutrality, as if it has nothing to do with you. You listen in a passive state—like a dead man. If there are ears, they hear. One way is passive listening. And another way is active listening—joyous, ecstatic, dancing, cooperating: as if I am not speaking—you are; as if your own future is speaking; as if the possibility hidden within you is speaking. I am your own humming. The song you have not yet sung but have to sing—I am giving you a few lessons toward it.

What now seems to you a mere tanpura, as you go on playing it, will become your own veena. Playing with me, gradually you will find the distance between you and me has ended; neither am I, nor are you—the Divine is playing. And then you will become capable that if someone comes to you, he too will begin to tune his tanpura.

Guest of my life-breaths’ last hour!
Like collyrium washed in moonlight,
spreading a smile of lightning,
on the wings of the fragrant breeze,
if you gather in the sky and come—
be that raincloud—come as rain!
As on a weary traveler,
night comes smiling like a shade,
and in heavy eyelids slowly
she opens the honey of sleep—
so make this life swoon!
From unknown realms, in secret,
as rays descend
and, drinking nectar to quench their thirst,
open the hearts of flowers—
so come, hidden, clothed in shadow!

Let me come—let me enter within you. Don’t even bring up this business of holding. You must become tipsy. Become a drunkard. Sway in some wine. Don’t even bring up holding.

I understand your fear—what is happening? Will I lose my senses? Will I become unconscious?

As on a weary traveler,
night comes smiling like a shade,
and in heavy eyelids slowly
she opens the honey of sleep—
so make this life swoon!
Let this now be your prayer:
So make this life swoon!

Say to me: hurry! Say to me: let there no longer remain this fear that I might clutch at something and stop. Say to me: now drown me, make me senseless. Because what you have so far taken as sense was insensibility. What you have so far taken as awareness was unconsciousness. And what you thought was awakening was no more than dreams—deep dark night and sleep.

Now this swoon I want to give you, this intoxication I want you to drink—this is the advent of awareness. It feels like unconsciousness to you because what you have so far called awareness, this is its opposite. This is a wine that brings awareness.

From unknown realms, in secret,
as rays descend
and, drinking nectar to quench their thirst,
open the hearts of flowers—
so come, hidden, clothed in shadow!

Let me come. When you say, Hold me! it means you have become frightened. It means that if I knock at your door you will not open. It means that seeing me near, you will shut the door. It means you are scared of madness.

But remember, religion is a unique madness—such madness as is far more intelligent than the intelligence of the clever; such madness as is far beyond ordinary reason; such madness as brings one close to the Divine.

There are two kinds of people in the world who go mad: those who fall below the mind, and those who go beyond the mind.

So it is no surprise that psychiatrists count saints along with madmen—both “abnormal.” In psychology’s books you won’t find a separate division for saints and for madmen. By their reckoning there are only two kinds of people—normal and abnormal; ordinary and pathological. You are the ordinary. The pathological are of two kinds—no matter the style of their pathology; religious or irreligious; atheist or theist—yet “abnormal.”

Even now, in the West, books are written about Jesus that claim he was mad, neurotic. In India psychology has not yet had that much influence, so Buddha and Mahavira, Ashtavakra are still spared. But this won’t last long. Soon Indian psychologists will muster courage. For now they don’t have that much boldness; but soon they will. And to prove Jesus mad there isn’t as much evidence as they will find to prove Mahavira mad. You have seen—Mahavira stood naked! At least Jesus wore clothes. Now this, of course, is madness—so they will say. You have seen—Mahavira plucked out his hair with his own hands! There is a particular class of madmen who yank out their hair. You must have seen madmen; you must have felt it yourself sometime—when madness comes over you, you say, I feel like tearing my hair out. There is a saying: I feel like tearing my hair out. Women, when enraged, tear their hair—in a moment of madness! There are many in asylums who pluck their hair. Mahavira plucked his hair—kesh-lunch. You even have an abuse—nanga-luchcha, “naked hair-plucker.” It was first hurled at Mahavira, because he was naked and plucked his hair. Nanga-luchcha! If you want to find madness in Mahavira, you will find it aplenty.

But psychologists still know nothing. Their division is ignorant. It may well be that one man is tottering down the road drunk on wine; and another is reeling, drunk on love; and another is swaying in prayer. All three are wobbling on the path; their feet don’t fall squarely; the inner joy streams—if you see all three from behind, they will look the same to you: drunkards. For just as the drunkard staggers, so does Meera; so does Chaitanya. As the drunkard hums a song, so does Meera hum. From behind they will seem alike. But what a distance between Meera and the drunkard! Between Chaitanya and the drunkard! The drunkard lost his mind by drinking wine. Meera too lost her mind.

Meera says, I have lost all regard for the world’s opinion. She drank a different wine. The wine made from grapes is not the only wine; there is another wine, brewed from the love of the Lord. That she drank. She too is intoxicated.

But Meera is not pathological. If Meera is pathological, then your definitions of health are wrong. Because Meera is so carefree and blissful—carefreeness and bliss should be the very signs of health. The so-called normal, whom psychologists call “normal,” appear highly agitated, anxious, troubled, unhappy. Is this any definition of health? These worry-ridden, sorrowful, harried people, in whose lives no flower ever bloomed, no raga ever burst forth, no stream of rasa ever flowed—these are the healthy ones? If these are the healthy, then the sensible will choose Meera’s madness. That is worth choosing. Madness it may be—what does a name matter? What you call a rose—what difference does it make? A rose is a rose. A rose remains a rose even if you call it a marigold.

Call Mahavira mad—what difference does it make? Or call him a paramahansa—what difference does it make? Mahavira is Mahavira.

Keep this in mind. Don’t be afraid.

If you are with me, then surely there is an arrangement going on to serve wine. This is a tavern. Better to call it a tavern than a temple. Here I want you to sway and dance! Here I want you to enter a deep intoxication! A new dimension opens!

From the heart all rancor has gone far away—
life has become so beautiful!
Drink a little of me!
From the heart all rancor has gone far away—
all worry, fear, restlessness, unrest—everything will go far away!
Life has become so beautiful!
And life will become very beautiful. In each single flower you will see thousands upon thousands blooming.

So shallow is the world’s happiness,
the heart has come to need sorrow again.
And when you come to know life’s real joy, you will be amazed. You will find that, compared to the pleasures of this world, the sorrow born of longing for God is better. Compared to the world’s pleasures, it is better to weep for God. Compared to the world’s smiles, tears shed for God are better.

So shallow is the world’s happiness,
the heart has come to need sorrow again.
So deeply are you settled in me, beloved—
you have become the idol of my heart’s temple.
Your remembrance has made the heart shine,
your love has adorned this gathering.
No other name has come upon the tongue;
day and night it chants only your name.
Within my heart a shehnai has begun to play.

Let this shehnai play. Let this one-stringed lute sound. Let this tanpura hum. Let the rhythms rise on the tabla. Dance, sing, hum!

In my vision, religion is that which dances. And the world needs a dancing God. A gloomy God has not served. A gloomy God seems to be the invention of gloomy men, not the real God. We need a laughing, dancing God! And any religion that does not give laughter, that does not give joy, that does not fill your life with smiles, with festivity, with enthusiasm—that is not religion; it is suicide. Do not settle for it. That religion is the religion of the old, or of the dead—whose life-stream has dried up. Religion must be young! Religion must be youthful! Like little children—thrilled, skipping, dancing, wonder-filled!

So I am not here to teach you long, gloomy faces. And I do not want you to take life heavily serious. Seriousness has become a stone on your chest. Seriousness is a disease. Remove the stone of seriousness.

That stone is sliding away and the tanpura is about to hum—and you say, Hold me! You say, Hold me! Say: Push me! Say: Give me such a push that I am gone, and only the tanpura keeps resounding.

If your heart has truly had its fill—if you are really fed up with the world—its outcome is not sadness. Its outcome is not even despair. Its outcome is the birth of an unprecedented blossoming, an incomparable exhilaration. One who has truly had his fill of life has understood that life as you grasp at it is futile. Then why despair? Despair needs hope as its fuel. Try to understand this.

So long as there is hope in you that you will get something from life—something—life will disappoint you, because there is nothing to get. The day hope drops, that very day despair drops. People think: if hope goes, we will become utterly despondent. But if hope goes, there is no way to be despondent—because hope and despair depart together. Despair is the shadow of hope. The more you hope, the more despair is bred. The more you want to win, the more you can lose. Only if you wanted to win can you be defeated.

Lao Tzu says: No one can defeat me, because I do not want to win. How will you defeat a man who has no wish to win? Lao Tzu says, I am already defeated—how will you defeat me?

The one who has the ambition to win will lose—and the greater the ambition, the greater the loss. The one who wants to be rich will remain poor—and the more he wants to be rich, the poorer he will be. His expectation of wealth can never be filled. Whatever he gets will seem small, trivial. The vessel of his longing is too big; whatever is poured into it disappears.

Keep this maxim in mind: your hope is the mother of your despair. Your ambition is the foundation of your failure. Your demand is the melancholy of your life.

If you have truly had your fill of life… it doesn’t seem so.
“Giver of life, listen,
I am fed up with your world.”
Not yet fed up. You must be tired. Your hopes have not been fulfilled, but they have not ended either. What you call “fed up with life” is a state of dejection. What you wanted did not happen, so you are bored, weary. But if God were to say to you right now, “It can happen,” you would run again. If someone told you, “Run again—it’s near at hand,” you would set out again; the lamp of hope would begin to burn again.

This is your defeat, not understanding. Do not mistake defeat for insight. The defeated man sits down, exhausted, but deep inside he still thinks: Perhaps it could have happened; perhaps with another method! Perhaps there is another way to search! Maybe I searched wrongly; maybe I did not put in enough strength!

No matter how much strength you put in, in the world defeat is certain. In the world there is no victory.

I have heard: A woman was buying a toy at a shop for her child—a puzzle that comes in pieces and is to be assembled. She tried hard, her husband tried hard; it just wouldn’t fit. Finally she asked the shopkeeper, “Listen, we are buying this for a five-year-old child. I can’t put it together, my husband can’t put it together—he’s a professor of mathematics. Who will put it together then? How will my five-year-old manage?”

The shopkeeper said, “Please don’t worry. This toy has not been made to be put together. It’s a teaching tool: the world is just like this—no matter how you try to assemble it, it doesn’t assemble. Let the child learn a truth of life from now on. He will try a thousand times to fit it, but it has not been made to fit. In it you will keep missing. In it defeat is certain.”

The world is a training ground. It is not meant to fit together. It has never fit together. It did not fit for Alexander. It did not fit for Napoleon. It will not fit for you either. It has never fit for anyone. If it could have been made to fit, Buddha and Mahavira would not have left it; they would have made it fit. If it did not fit for Buddhas and Mahaviras, it will not fit for you. It is made in such a way that defeat is certain, dejection inevitable.

It is made so that, seeing and seeing, failing and failing, you wake up. One day—on the day you truly awaken—you will understand that it is not meant to fit; not that there is some flaw in your method; not that you didn’t work hard enough; not that you lacked intelligence; not that if you had run a little more you would have reached. The day you see that it is not made to fit, that day the melancholy will disappear. That day all inner defeat and loss will vanish. That day you will burst into laughter. You will say, What a grand joke!

Knowing this joke, Hindus called the world a play, a divine lila. The game is being played! So long as you keep expectations from this world, there is restlessness.

“O heart intimate with death—have you received the reply to your letter?
And still you are restless? And still you wait?”
Sitting—waiting anxiously for the beloved’s letter to come.
“O heart intimate with death!”
—O heart devoted to the beloved—
“O heart intimate with death—have you received the reply to your letter?
And still you are restless? And still you wait?”

Now wake up—enough waiting! See, there is nothing to be gotten here. It is a play—play it as a play. Do not get lost in it. Do not take it with excessive seriousness.

And you are such fools that you go to a film and take even that seriously. Someone is murdered on the screen, and many sighs are heard! Have you gone mad? Keep some awareness! If you were to pick up people’s handkerchiefs after the movie and examine them one by one, you would find them wet. Tears flow; they wipe them quickly and hide the handkerchiefs. Fortunately there is darkness in the cinema hall, so no one sees. The wife is crying on one side, the husband is crying on the other. Both wipe away their tears… and neither realizes that there is nothing on the screen—only light and shadow! Yet even that affects you; it agitates you deeply. Symbols affect you; words affect you.

So it is natural that this life spread all around, this vast stage—if you get lost in it, it is no surprise! You are not aware; you are in a swoon.

“Giver of life, listen,
I am fed up with your world,
living here has become difficult.”
Difficult? That means expectations still remain—otherwise, what is difficult? “Difficult” means: you still want some convenience, some success; at least some relief should be given. Don’t give me defeat upon defeat. Leave some pretext, some excuse to go on living.

“The night does not end, the day does not pass;
you have given a wound that will not heal.”
Look again, closely. The knowers have said the world is maya—how can it give you a wound? It is like the rope and the snake. In the dark someone mistakes a rope for a snake and runs off; sweat pours, the chest heaves, the heart flutters—someone brings a lamp and says, “Fool, just look—there is nothing to run from, nothing to be afraid of. It’s a rope.”

In my village there was a Kabirpanthi sadhu. He always gave this example of the rope and the snake. I was small, and from then on I heard him. Whenever I went to listen, this example would be there—it is an ancient Indian example. At last I thought: this man talks so much about rope-and-snake—let’s test him.

He used to pass in front of my house at night. His hut was behind my house, across the drain. So I tied a thin thread to a rope and sat inside my house. I threw the rope across to the side of the road near the drain. When he came along with his staff, I began to pull the thread gently from the other side.

When he saw the rope sliding, he ran as if his life depended on it, raising such a hue and cry that I, who was hiding behind a cot, toppled it in the commotion and got caught. I was scolded badly: “This is not right—to play such a prank on an old man!” I said, “The prank was his suggestion. I got tired of hearing: rope-and-snake, rope-and-snake! I thought at least he would not be frightened—he would recognize the rope. If even he missed, what to say of others?”

This world only appears; it seems. And it seems in such a way that it looks real. But one day you were not, and one day you will be no more. This short play in between will dissolve like a dream. Look back: you have lived thirty years, forty, fifty—can you now decide with certainty whether those fifty years were lived, or were seen in a dream? Only memory remains—and memory remains of dreams too. Today, what way do you have to verify that the fifty years you remember were actually lived, and not a mirage? You will be in great difficulty if you sit to think. Your mind will be greatly disturbed if you meditate on this; you will break into a sweat. You will not be able to catch the thread by which to prove that what you think you saw was truly seen, or only a mirage.

At death, when death stands at your door and its darkness surrounds you, will you not remember and wonder whether the sixty, seventy, eighty years I lived—were they? How will you decide that they were? Death wipes everything clean. How many have lived upon this earth, how many have passed—come and gone—and today there is no trace of them.

Scientists say that where you are sitting, at least ten corpses are buried. So many have died on this earth. Every inch of earth is a grave. Do not think the cemetery is outside the village. Where there is a village now, once there was a graveyard, a cremation ground. Where there is a cremation ground now, once there was a village. Everything keeps changing—over millions of years. Every inch of the earth is layered with human bodies. Where you are sitting, ten dead are buried beneath. You too will quietly become the eleventh, slip in among them.

Then what is the meaning of all this running about, this longing and ambition? Seeing this truth, one who wakes does not say, “The night will not pass; the day won’t go by.” He does not say, “You have given such a wound as will not heal. The eyes are desolate, the heart distressed, life a bundle of grief.” These are all shadows of hope and expectation. They do not make one religious. And the man who becomes “religious” because of these simply continues the world’s demands in the name of religion. He goes to the temple and asks there for what he did not get in the world. His heaven is the fulfillment of what he failed to get here; he will satisfy those desires there. That is why we have planted wish-fulfilling trees in heaven—sit beneath them and everything is granted.

I have heard: A man, by chance, came under a wish-fulfilling tree. He did not know it was such a tree. He sat beneath it, very tired. He thought, “I am so exhausted. If only someone would bring me food! But there is no one in sight.” As he thought it, platters of food appeared. He was so hungry he did not even notice where they were coming from or what was happening. He ate. After eating he thought, “Strange—but it’s the world; everything happens here.” He was too full to worry. Having overeaten, he felt sleepy. He thought, “If there were a bed, I could sleep in comfort.” At the thought, a bed appeared. A little suspicion arose, but he thought, “There is time for that later; for now, sleep. There is plenty of life left—why think now?” He slept. When he awoke, somewhat settled, he looked around: “What is going on? Could there be ghosts and goblins here?” Ghosts and goblins appeared—for it was a wish-fulfilling tree. He shrieked, “I am done for!”—and he was done for, as the ghosts pounced.

We have imagined the wish-fulfilling tree in heaven: what is not here will be given there by mere wishing.

See the nature of desire! Here you have to labor; wishing alone does not bring things. Even with labor there is no guarantee you will get them. Where do they ever truly arrive? So we have imagined the opposite state in heaven: there you think—and before you finish thinking, it is granted. Instantaneously, with no interval of time. But remember, even there you would not be happy.

See what happened to this man! Where everything is granted, still you would not be happy—because you cannot be happy so long as you rely on happiness.

Wake up from pleasure. In awakening from pleasure itself, pain dissolves.

A man came to Buddha—he was a monk of Buddha’s, a sannyasin. He had meditated long, had become very quiet. One day, while meditating, it occurred to him that Buddha had not answered the real questions at all. He came running to Buddha and said, “Listen: you never told us whether God exists or not; you never told us whether heaven exists or not; you never told us where the soul goes after death, whether there is rebirth. Answer these.”

Buddha said, “Listen: if I answer these, I will die before my answers reach you, and you will die before you understand them. These answers are futile. They are like this: a man has been struck by an arrow and lies dying, and I say, ‘Let me pull out the arrow,’ and he says, ‘Wait—first answer my questions: From which direction did the arrow come? Who shot it—friend or enemy? Was it accidental or deliberate? Was the arrow poisoned or plain? First answer these, then pull it out!’ I will say to that man: then you will die. Let me first pull out the arrow; then you can worry about your questions. First be saved.”

Buddha told that monk: “I have told you that there is suffering in life, and I have told you there is a path to freedom from suffering. My teaching is complete. Beyond this I have nothing to tell you. Let your suffering end—then you can find out for yourself.”

This is worth deep reflection. Why did Buddha say so? Was he unwilling to answer about God? Buddha knows you are seeking God because of your suffering. The day suffering disappears, you will drop the chatter about God and such. God too is only your desire to be rid of suffering—if not here, then in heaven. Here, asking and asking, you were defeated; here justice is not found—so in God’s house it will be!

People say: there may be delay, but there is no injustice. They say: even if it takes time—after birth, after many births, after death—justice will be done; there is no injustice.

But your desires stand where they are. You say: someday they must be fulfilled! There is delay, but not injustice.

Buddha said: I have taught only two things—there is suffering, wake up to it; and there is a way beyond suffering—be a witness. Beyond this I have nothing more to say; my teaching is complete. Do these two things; the rest, discover yourself.

And Buddha spoke exactly right. The one whose suffering has ended does not worry whether heaven exists or not. For the one whose suffering has ended, heaven has already happened. And the one whose suffering has ended does not ask whether God exists or not. The one whose suffering has ended has himself become God. What remains beyond that?
The one who has asked the question needs to understand much. Do not look at life through the veil of desires. Do not look at life in terms of expectations. See life as it is, and do not bring your aspiration in between. Then suddenly you will find: the snake is gone, the rope remains lying there. Then no fear arises, no wounds are inflicted, no defeat, no failure, no melancholy. And within you the lamp will begin to burn that Ashtavakra calls witness-consciousness.
Look at suffering. Do not crave happiness; look at suffering.

There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who desire happiness, and those who look at suffering. The one who desires happiness goes on creating new sufferings, because in every aspiration for happiness the birth of fresh suffering is contained. And the one who looks at suffering finds suffering dissolving. In the dissolution of suffering is the manifestation of happiness.

I repeat it again: there are only two kinds of people, and it is your choice which kind you wish to become.

Ask for happiness, and suffering will keep increasing. Because happiness never comes by asking; therefore suffering keeps increasing. Then the more suffering grows, the more you demand happiness—and the more suffering grows. You are caught in a vicious circle, hard to escape. This is what the wise have called the wheel of the world—the ocean of becoming! It becomes a vast ocean, because as your suffering grows you think, “Let me seek more happiness.” And the more you seek happiness, the more suffering grows. There is no shore to this, no end. The ocean of becoming is created.

There is the other kind of people, who look at suffering. Suffering is—so be it. What is the point of desiring its opposite? Let us look at this: where is it, what is it, what is its nature? If suffering is a fact, let us awaken toward it.

Try a small experiment. Whenever you feel low, sad, sit quietly in your room. Be sad! In fact be as sad as you can be. Exaggerate it.

In Tibet there is a practice: exaggeration. It is a deep method of meditation. They say: whatever you wish to be free of, exaggerate it, so that it appears in its full form, not weak and feeble. You are feeling miserable—close the doors and windows, sit in the middle of the room and be as miserable as you can. Writhe, sigh, scream; if you feel like rolling on the floor, roll; if you feel like beating your breast, beat it—but exaggerate the suffering. Raise suffering to its full dignity; kindle the fire of suffering. And when the blaze of suffering flares up, burning with a roar, then stand in the middle and begin to watch: What is it? What is this suffering like? Become a witness to this suffering.

You will be astonished—amazed—that the very moment you become a witness, suffering starts receding; a distance begins to arise between you and the suffering. As you become more of a witness, the gap widens. And as the gap widens, the melody of joy begins to be heard, the fragrance of happiness begins to be felt. Because the going away of suffering is the coming near of happiness. Gradually you will find that suffering has gone so far that you can hardly tell whether it exists or not—far away as if on the distant stars—and the veena of bliss begins to play within. Then there comes a moment when suffering is gone. When suffering goes, what remains is happiness.

Happiness is your nature. Happiness is not the opposite of suffering. You need not fight suffering to attain happiness. Happiness is the absence of suffering. The nonpresence of suffering is happiness. Just look at suffering with your eyes full—and suffering is gone. Do the same with anger. Do the same with greed. Do the same with anxiety. And in ninety out of a hundred cases you can do the same even with the pains of the body.

Right now in the West great psychological experiments are going on that testify to this truth. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a headache disappears merely by watching in the attitude of a witness—ninety-nine cases. In one case it may not, because the cause may be physical; otherwise the causes are mental.

Next time you have a headache, don’t rush to take a Saridon; don’t take an Aspro. This time, when suffering arises, use the method of meditation, and you will be amazed. It is an experiment. Religiously it has been proven for centuries; now scientifically it is proven too. When your head aches, sit down. Try to locate the pain precisely: where exactly is it, so that you could place a finger on it? If it seems to be in the whole head, try to pinpoint where exactly it is. You will be surprised: as you search, the pain begins to shrink, its area grows smaller. First it seemed to be in the whole head; now it seems to be in a small place. Keep searching, keep searching, keep looking within—and do not make the slightest effort that there be no pain; if it is there, accept it. Suddenly you will find that a moment comes when the pain remains as if someone is pricking with a needle—so small, at a tiny point! And then you will be amazed that sometimes the pain will vanish; sometimes it will return; sometimes it will vanish again; sometimes it will return again. And then one thing will become clear: whenever your witnessing is steady, the pain vanishes. Whenever you are distracted from witnessing, the pain returns. And if witnessing becomes perfectly steady, the pain disappears completely.

Try this a little. Mental suffering certainly goes; physical suffering perhaps may not. If someone has struck your head with a stone, I am not speaking of that. That is why I left one case out of a hundred—if you have banged your head against a wall and then it hurts, that pain is physical; it has nothing to do with the mind. But even if someone has hit your head with a stone, if you watch in the attitude of a witness, the pain will not end, but one thing will become clear: you are not the pain. You are different from the pain. The pain will remain. If the pain is mental, it will end. If it is physical, it will remain. But in both cases you will go beyond the pain. If it is mental, the pain goes; if physical, the pain remains; but there will no longer be the feeling “I am in pain.” Pain will be there—as if someone else’s head hurts; as if someone else’s leg hurts; as if someone else has been wounded. It will be far away. You will be standing and watching. You, the seer, the mere witness!

Do not panic.

“O giver of life, listen!
I am weary of your world.
Living here has become difficult.”

This has not happened because of the One who gave you life; it has happened because of you. Therefore do not panic; for if it had happened because of Him, then nothing would be in your hands. Because it has happened because of you, everything is in your hands. If you awaken, it can end. And singing such songs will do nothing—something must be done! Some effort is needed, so that the inner sleep breaks.

Sleep can break. This darkness you see is not eternal. Morning can happen.

“This is but the anguish of a single night—let dawn arise;
With heaven overhead, the day’s toil will pass.

The heart of the breeze is eager to raise the dust of longing—
surely some horseman will pass this way.

‘Naseem,’ wake up, gird your loins,
fold up your bedding—the night is short.

‘Naseem,’ wake up, gird your loins,
fold up your bedding—the night is short.”

Witnessing is folding up the bedding—now it is close to dawn. And the day you fold up your bedding, that very day the morning comes close. This is a dawn that depends on your folding up the bedding. You prepare here, you stand awake—and morning happens!

Morning means your awakening. Night means your sleep.

Crying and talking about your pain will not solve anything. You have been doing that already. You have wept enough. For lifetimes you have been weeping and saying, “Let someone do it, whether or not there is a maker of the world.” To whom are you praying? Do you know anything about him? He may or may not be; and if he is, he may be deaf; or he may enjoy giving you suffering; or your suffering may not look like suffering to him—whom are you praying to? And that he exists at all is not certain.

Man has erected gods out of his fear, and carved idols out of his suffering, and in his pain has traced shapes in the sky to find some support. None of this will help.

Ashtavakra or Buddha or Kapila do not ask you to do such things.

They say: what can be said is this one thing—that there is consciousness within you; that much is certain; otherwise how would you know suffering? Refine that consciousness, make it clear and clean! Separate it from the rubbish and debris. Kindle it, set it ablaze so that it becomes a torch. In that very torch is liberation.

The last question

And the last question is not a question:

“Ekti namaskare, Prabhu, ekti namaskare!
Sakal deh lutiye paduk tomar ei samsare,
Ghan shravan-megher moto raser bhare namra nata—
Ekti namaskare, Prabhu, ekti namaskare!

Samasta man padiya thak, tava bhavan-dware;
Nana surer akul dhara, miliye diye atma-hara—
Ekti namaskare, Prabhu, ekti namaskare!

Samasta gan samapta hok, nirav paravare;
Hans jemon Manas-yatri, teman sara dibas-ratri—
Ekti namaskare, Prabhu, ekti namaskare!

Samasta pran ude chaluk, mahamaran-pare!
Swami Anand Sagar-er pranam!”

Anand Sagar has submitted this—not a question. But these are meaningful lines. Keep them in remembrance.

“‘Sakal deh lutiye paduk,
tomar ei samsare!’
—In your world, everything has been plundered! Now only one salutation remains.

‘Ekti namaskare, Prabhu,
ekti namaskare!
Sakal deh lutiye paduk,
tomar ei samsare
Ghan shravan-megher moto’
—and as in Ashadh the clouds fill with water,

‘Raser bhare namra nata’…
—and filled with nectar they bow down to the earth and pour,

‘Ekti namaskare, Prabhu,
ekti namaskare!’
—may I in the same way rain down at your feet, as rain-laden clouds pour.

‘Samasta man padiya thak,
tava bhavan-dware!’
—and at your house’s door may my whole mind collapse and be shattered; let me be free of mind at your doorway—this alone is the prayer.

‘Nana surer akul dhara
miliye diye atma-hara
Ekti namaskare, Prabhu,
ekti namaskare!
Samasta gan samapta hok,
nirav paravare!’
—let it be so that all my songs now disappear, only the shoreless silence remains! Let the song of the void begin—the song without tone, without sound!

‘Samasta gan samapta hok,
nirav paravare!’
—may the final song now be silent, unsaid, without words! Let silence be the last song.

‘Hans jemon Manas-yatri
teman sara dibas-ratri.’
—these life-breaths are like swans journeying to Manasarovar; these breaths are swans longing for their home.

‘Hans jemon Manas-yatri
teman sara dibas-ratri.’
—day and night there is but one prayer: how might this swan return to that void, to that vast Infinite, to that Manasarovar! How to find home again!

‘Ekti namaskare, Prabhu,
ekti namaskare!
Samasta pran ude chaluk,
mahamaran-pare.’
—let it so happen that all the life-energies fly beyond great death.”

Let only such a salutation remain! Let only such a prayer remain—and like the clouds may your life bow down at the feet of the Infinite—then everything blossoms as grace, it happens. You bow, and all becomes possible. You stand stiff, and you are left deprived.

By your doing, your self-importance and ego, and your resolves, there will be only running around. By your surrender, your dissolution, your diving deep, the great grace descends. Bow.

“‘Raser bhare namra nata
ghan shravan-megher moto
Ekti namaskare, Prabhu,
ekti namaskare!
Samasta man padiya thak
Samasta gan samapta hok
Samasta pran ude chaluk,
mahamaran-pare!’”

The supreme truth of life is beyond death. The supreme truth of life is where you disappear. Your dying is samadhi. And your not-being is the being of the Lord. As long as you are—God is held back, obstructed. You are the wall. You vanish—and the door opens! Learn to vanish.

And there are only two ways to vanish: either become a witness—which is the way of Ashtavakra, Kapila, Krishnamurti, Buddha; or drown in love—which is the path of Meera, Chaitanya, Jesus, Mohammed. Both paths lead—either insight, or devotion. But the essence of both is one and the same. In awareness you dissolve, because ego cannot survive in witnessing; and in love you dissolve, because in love there is no possibility for the ego to remain. So the distilled essence is one: when ego is not, the Divine is revealed.

Hari Om Tatsat!