Maha Geeta #28

Certainly, that is so. Whatever one must be freed from must first be known. Without knowing, no one is ever freed.
If you wish to be free of logic, you must know logic. Only those who have gone deep into logic can rise beyond it. If you wish to go beyond the intellect, the intellect must be refined. Only the supremely intelligent go beyond intelligence. The sharper the edge you give your intellect, the more it will help you to go beyond it.
This seems upside down at first glance: if one has to be free of the intellect, why sharpen it? But fools cannot get free of the intellect. Those who have never learned the game of the intellect are forever ready to be trapped in its net.
Belief is below the intellect; trust is beyond the intellect. To believe requires no intelligence at all; stupidity is sufficient. But to awaken trust, great intelligence is needed. Only one who has climbed all the steps of intellect, all its ladders, finds the light of trust in his life.
Merely being a theist is not the truth. No one has ever become truly theistic without first passing through atheism; if he has, his theism will remain raw. He is an unfired pot. Don’t be deceived. Don’t draw water in it—by the time you get home, neither pot nor water will remain.
The pot must pass through fire to be baked.
Those who became supreme theists in this world have passed through the fierce fire of supreme atheism. And this seems right too, because if a person has never learned to say “no,” how much power can there be in his “yes”? His “yes” will be the “yes” of the impotent. His impotence itself will become his belief. His weakness, his poverty will become his belief.
But trust transforms a person into an emperor! Trust makes one vast! Trust bestows majesty, lordliness!
With trust an empire expands—an empire upon which the sun never sets, because there is no darkness there, only light upon light.
I call atheism an indispensable step toward theism. One must learn to refuse; only then does one’s “yes” carry meaning. If a person says “yes” to everything, how much value can his “yes” have? Only one who can also say “no” can have a meaningful “yes.”
So you will find two kinds of theists in the world—one, the theists of fear. Their atheism remains inside. Deep down atheism persists; on the surface there is a thin veneer, a delicate gauze of theism—scratch it a little and it will tear, and the atheist will leap out. As long as things go well, theism persists; let there be a little turmoil and all is lost. Your son comes of age and dies—and doubt about God arises. Your shop was doing well and you go bankrupt—and doubt about God arises. You worked with honesty and received no fruit while a cheat walked away with the reward—instantly, doubt arises. Doubt seems to be just waiting! As if sitting right at hand, waiting for a chance to pounce!
Those whom you call theists—people bowing in temples and mosques, praying in worship or namaz—deep inside them too there is a strong doubt. Again and again it arises: “Is what I am doing right?” Yet they go on doing it out of fear—who knows, God may exist; who knows, heaven and hell may be real! So a clever man should arrange for both.
A Muslim cleric lay near death. There was no other educated person in the village, so they sent for Mulla Nasruddin to recite the Quran at his bedside. The Mulla said, “Forget the Quran now. In this last hour I’ll say only one thing—repeat this prayer after me.”
And the Mulla said, “Say with me: O Lord and O Devil, thanks to you both! Take care of me.”
The cleric opened his eyes. He was dying, but not entirely unconscious. He said, “Are you in your senses? What are you saying—O Lord, O Devil?”
Nasruddin said, “At this final moment it’s not wise to take risks. Who knows who the real master is! Remember them both. And who knows where you will go—to hell or to heaven! If you go to hell, the Devil will be annoyed that you remembered only God and not him. If you go to heaven, then fine. But what’s certain? And at such an hour, no risks! Please both. Use a little politics.”
So those you see praying in temples are using a little politics. They are trying to manage this world—and in case there is something after death, that too. If there is nothing, no harm; but if there is…!
Besides, in this world they need support—they feel very weak alone. So out of a craving for support a person accepts God. But this is not trust. This is not reverence. As long as you are using the idea of God for some utility, there is no trust. When the idea of God becomes your overflowing joy; when your relationship with God has no give-and-take in it, nothing to ask for, no beggary left; when a current of love begins to flow between you and God that asks for nothing; when a music is born between you and God—your veena vibrating with his veena, your voice entwined with his voice, your very life-breath dancing to his rhythm—and beyond this there is nothing to gain and nothing to lose—then there is trust. But such trust comes only to those who have cut through, and passed through, every kind of atheism.
One must learn to say “no,” only then can one truly say “yes.” That is why I speak to you of all traditions—because I want you to go beyond traditions. That is why I speak to you of all religions—because I point you toward that ultimate religion which is beyond all religions. That is why I sometimes speak of Mohammed, sometimes of Mahavira, sometimes of Patanjali, sometimes of Meera—so that you remember that truth is one; opinions are many, countless. Therefore truth cannot be contained in opinions. Become free of opinions…
First it is necessary to know atheism rightly. Having become free of atheism, it is then necessary to know well the many doctrines of theism too—so that you become free of those as well. Only you remain, in your utmost purity—pure consciousness, consciousness alone! No faith, no doctrine, no “yes,” no “no.” Where no vikalpa remains, where the mirror is utterly clean—there you have arrived home. That is the meaning of nirved.
Great meanings are hidden in the word “nirved.” One meaning is: absence of emotion. Another is: absence of thought. We call the fundamental scripture of knowledge the Veda. Nir-ved means: to become free of all Vedas; to be free of all knowledge; to be free of knowledge as such; to be free of opinions, doctrines, dogmas, beliefs; to be free of the Veda. Your Veda may be the Quran. The Muslim’s Veda is the Quran, the Buddhist’s Veda is the Dhammapada, the Christian’s Veda is the Bible. It makes no difference. Wherever you have imagined “knowledge” to be—within words and doctrines—be free of all that.
The state of nirved means the state of no-thought; the state of no-feeling. Within you, no scripture, no word, no doctrine—you are like a void. Then you are not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Jain, not Buddhist—for all those names derive from their Vedas. One has accepted one Veda and he is called a Hindu; another, a different Veda, and he is called a Jain. Someone says, “We experience the Veda in Mahavira”—he is a Jain. Someone says, “We experience the Veda in Buddha”—he is a Buddhist.
But Ashtavakra says the supreme state of knowing is when you experience the Veda only within yourself. Freedom from all outer Vedas—nirved.
Nirved means a great virginity—as if knowledge does not exist! Yet it cannot be called ignorance either, because awareness is complete. It is a knowledge-full ignorance. The Christian mystics—especially Tertullian—made a twofold distinction about human knowing. One he called “ignorant knowledge,” and the other “knowing ignorance.” A marvelous distinction!
One kind of knowledge is where, in truth, you know nothing—absolutely nothing—and yet it seems you know much! Scriptures are memorized; you have become a parrot. The brain is stuffed full; you can repeat—repeat perfectly. Your memory is sharp, your recall is fine—you can repeat. You know language, you know grammar—you can line up the meanings of words precisely. And yet you know nothing. For in all that you have “known,” there is none of your own knowing; all is borrowed; stale; begged and borrowed; not your own, not intrinsic. And what is knowledge worth if it is not your own?
So there is a kind of knowledge behind which ignorance hides. The person we call a pundit is that sort of “knower.” Pundit means parrot. He repeats; he does not know. He can say it, but has no idea what he is saying. He is like a machine—mechanical—ignorant knowledge!
And then, Tertullian says, there is another dimension: knowing ignorance. That is the meaning of nirved. Nirved means: you know that you know nothing—only this much you know. And the knowing is fully awake; the inner lamp burns at its fiercest. Around that lamp there is no smoke of the Vedas. Around that lamp there is not even a shadow of any doctrine. Only the pure lamp of your innermost burns. In the light of that inner lamp, everything is known—and yet no claim to knowing arises.
The Upanishads say: He who says, “I know,” know that he does not know.
Socrates said: When I began to know a little, then I realized that I know nothing. When I began to know a little—then I came to know that I know nothing.
Lao Tzu said: The wise looks like the ignorant.
Jesus said: Those who are as innocent as children will enter my Father’s kingdom.
Innocent like children! It is clear. A child has no pedantry. He has no experience yet from which pedantry could arise. He is not yet schooled, learned, stuffed with thoughts—he is guileless. Such guileless ignorance—knowing ignorance! You know nothing, and yet you are a blazing fire; your light spreads everywhere.
The state of nirved is utterly unique. Therefore the supreme knowers have held the Vedas to be for the ignorant. Ashtavakra holds this, Buddha holds this, Mahavira holds this. The Vedas are for those who as yet understand nothing. For those who understand, their illumination is sought in nirved, not in the Vedas. Their eyes lift toward the wordless void; their flight begins toward the truth beyond all dualities.
I speak to you of all these doctrines so that by knowing you may become free; become acquainted, and then be free. Without acquaintance, you cannot be free.
If you simply listen to me quietly, you will slowly find: everything comes and everything goes! The danger begins when, while listening, you start grasping at knowledge—then there is danger. The Veda begins to form, and you miss nirved. But I will not let you settle. That is why I keep changing every day. One day I speak on Buddha, and you slowly begin to agree, to be won over. The moment I see you are becoming agreeable, becoming “knowers,” the moment I see Buddha is turning into your Veda…
Man clutches at security so quickly! He wants to “know” so quickly—without labor, without effort! If something can be had for free, who would not enjoy becoming a “knower”? You hear Buddha’s words, feel delighted, ecstatic, your information increases a little—and now you will walk the road tossing that information around; whoever you find, you will trap in your net and hang your information on his peg; you won’t miss a chance. Let any pretext arise and you will bring out your knowledge at once.
This information will not set you free. It may embellish your ego, but it will not free you from it.
So the moment I see that you have begun to take Buddha as your Veda, I must immediately speak on Mahavira—so that the ground is pulled out from beneath your feet again. I will do this many times. When this happens again and again, you will gain an insight: this ground is pulled away from under my feet each time. One day you will understand: stop making ground. Listen, but don’t clutch at doctrines; hear, savor, but don’t wear any creed. The day you understand this, that very day nirved is attained.
One must pass through all these classes. Whatever you do not pass through leaves a residual danger; if an opportunity arises, you may be trapped.
Therefore I say again and again: whatever you wish to be free of, know it thoroughly. Apart from knowing, there is neither liberation nor revolution.

They last for a few days; they cannot last for long. At first they will. Initially, when a disciple comes to the Master, he does not drop the ego all at once; he cannot let it go in one stroke. In the beginning, it is perhaps because of the ego itself that he comes to the Master. He sought wealth and found nothing—his ego found no satisfaction there. He sought status and found nothing—his ego didn’t find fulfillment there either. Now the ego says, “Seek knowledge.”

You have seen: Ashtavakra enumerated three desires—one of them, the ultimate one, is the desire for knowledge. It is the ego that brings you to the Master. Therefore, that which brought you to the Master will not leave you immediately. It will say, “To begin with, we are your real guru—we are the ones who brought you here. First bow down to us! How can you just leave us like that? We won’t let you go so quickly.”

So the ego will remain; but if love for the Master begins to arise—love toward the Master—then it cannot stay long. These are contrary phenomena; they cannot coexist. When the lamp is lit and the flame grows steadier and stronger—at first it will flicker and a little darkness will remain; as the flame deepens, the darkness recedes. A moment comes when the flame becomes steady, and the darkness is no more.

It is the ego that brings you to the Master, so it cannot be thrown away instantly. This very sort of ego people call sattvic ego, religious ego, holy ego. So the ego too...

You may have heard the saying about a cat going on the Hajj. She sent invitations—to the mice and all—“Come meet me now. I’m going on the Hajj; who knows whether I will return or not!” It must have been in olden times—now people do return. In those days, when someone set out on a pilgrimage, he took his final leave—whether he returned or not! In truth, one shouldn’t return from a true pilgrimage: once you have gone to the sacred, what is there to come back to?

So the cat sent word. The mice became very worried. Rumors and excitement spread among them. They said, “She may be going on the Hajj, but can you trust her? After devouring a hundred mice, off she goes to the Hajj—who knows...! She has eaten so many mice, and today suddenly she has become religious!”

Ego has eaten many mice; so you too won’t be able to trust it at once. “Ego—and it can lead you to the true Master!” But even cats go on the Hajj. After all, a person gets tired of everything. And the special trait of the ego is that it is never filled by anything; so if you don’t get tired, what else can happen? Hoard as much wealth as you like, for lifetimes, the ego is never filled. The ego is like a bucket without a bottom. You keep pouring into it, and everything drains away.

A young man came to Mulla Nasruddin and said, “Someone told me you have found the key to knowledge. Please accept me, Master; I will remain at your feet.”

Mulla said, “I have found the key, but to learn you need great patience. I have only one condition: you must keep patience. And only if you pass the test of patience will I accept you.”

He said, “I’m ready. Please test me.”

Mulla said, “I’m just going to the well to draw water; come along—your test can happen there.”

When Mulla picked up the bucket, the young man saw it had no bottom. He was a little surprised, but thought, “It’s not my place to speak—this is the time of testing. Let him do what he’s doing; but this man seems mad. With a rope and a bottomless bucket—where is he going!” The disciple grew very restless, but he held himself in check. “This is a test of patience; perhaps this is the test.”

Mulla threw the bucket into the well and shook it to fill it with water. When it sank below the surface, it seemed full. The young man stood watching. He thought, “What a limit! This ignoramus is going to give me knowledge! This fool doesn’t even know what he’s doing! He has found the key to knowledge? And I—what a fix I was getting into!”

Mulla pulled up the bucket; it came up empty. Mulla said, “What’s going on?” and dropped it again into the water.

Now the young man could bear it no more. He forgot himself and said, “Wait! Whether or not you teach me, let me teach you something for free: this bucket will never fill.”

Mulla said, “You spoke in the middle; you broke your patience. I only wanted to tell you: have you ever examined the bucket of your ego—has it ever been full? Now get away from here. I will not accept you as a disciple, because you broke the rule. You should have kept patience. I was trying to show you something.”

Driven away, the would-be disciple left, but he couldn’t sleep all night. The point struck him: “This is exactly it—lifetimes we’ve been filling the ego, and it never fills; perhaps there is no bottom. That must be the reason.”

The ego has no bottom. So fill it with knowledge, with wealth, with position, with renunciation, with love—whatever you pour into it, it won’t fill. Ultimately, this unfillable nature of the ego—its failure—is what brings you to the door of the Divine. After eating a hundred mice, the cat goes on the Hajj. And in truth, there is no other way to set out for the Hajj.

So even that which brings you to the Master is the failure of the ego. But however much the ego fails, it does not give up hope. Hope is the life-breath of the ego. It comes to the Master and now thinks, “I will fill myself with religion, with knowledge, with meditation.” For a few days it keeps maneuvering; it tries to fill itself here too.

But if the thread of surrender to the Master has been born, the ego will not last long. The two can coexist for a while, not for long.

Rahim has a saying:
Tell me, Rahim, how can the banana live beside the ber?
That one sways in its own sweet sap, and this one’s limbs are torn.

A banana tree and a ber tree cannot remain together for long.
Tell me, Rahim, how can the banana live beside the ber?
It sways in its own delight...
The ber, absorbed in its own joy, sways.
...and the other’s limbs are torn.
But as its branches touch, as its thorns touch, the banana’s leaves are torn. No one is trying to tear the banana’s leaves with the ber; the ber is simply swaying in its own juice. The morning breeze arrives, and it dances in ecstasy. But that very dancing becomes the banana’s death.

If within you there is also ego—which is natural—and there is also love for the true Master—which is very unnatural; which is a momentous event, an incomparable, unprecedented happening; for love for oneself is called ego, and love for another is called egolessness. And love for the true Master means: from where your ego will find not even the slightest chance of gratification. If, in surrender to the Master, in the Master’s satsang, you begin to dance, to be intoxicated, then the ego will not last long. It will be like the banana beside the ber: its leaves will tear of themselves; it will be destroyed of itself.

Do not give it thought, do not pay it attention, do not be anxious about it. Immerse yourself in satsang, in surrender. It will slowly, on its own, take leave. Do not even try to make it leave. For to pay attention to it is dangerous. Neglect is the way to be free of it. Let it be—as long as it is, it is okay. Don’t worry about it. Pour all your energy into surrender.

When a man climbs a staircase, you have seen: one foot is on the old step, and one foot he places on the new. When the foot settles on the new step, he lifts the back foot; then he places the front foot on the next step. There are many moments when one foot is on the old step and one on the new—only then is movement possible.

Ego is the stair you have used till now; surrender is your foot—searching for the new. Until your foot rests on the new, you cannot lift it from the old—nor should you, else you will fall flat on your face. Once the foot has found its grip on the new step, then lift it; then there is no fear. Once your foot settles in surrender, there will be little difficulty in lifting it from the ego.

But there is no need to hurry. Let things happen in their natural way, patiently. Do not be anxious: “If I have ego, how will surrender happen?”

When a room is dark, do you ask, “There is so much darkness here, and not of a day or two, but of lifetimes—who knows since when! If I light a little lamp here—will it burn? Will it burn in such great darkness?” You don’t ask this, because you know: darkness—however ancient—has no substance of its own. If the lamp of awareness, of surrender, of love is lit, darkness dissolves the moment the lamp is lit. It does not even protest; it doesn’t stand there saying, “What injustice is this! I have been in this room for thousands of years, and today you suddenly arrived like a guest and I must leave! I am the host; you are the guest. The lamp has just been lit; I have been here for so long!” No—the darkness does not complain; it cannot. Darkness has no power! It was there only because the lamp was not. Now the lamp has come; the darkness is gone.

So if within you the feeling of surrender has arisen, do not be afraid. However ancient the ego may be, it cannot stand before even this fresh, tender sprout of surrender. This small flame of surrender born within you is enough—it will burn to ashes the ego of centuries and lifetimes. Its power is great. You do not yet know its power; hence worry arises. And in that worry, do not make a mistake—do not start thinking too much about the ego: how to drop it, how to remove it! In that worry, the energy that should have gone into lighting the lamp will be scattered.

With your whole being, dropping all worries, go on pouring your energy into surrender. That very energy—when wholly absorbed in surrender—will leave nothing for the ego. The ego departs on its own.

First, I did not write anything on the blank page of your life. Your page was not blank; I made it blank. Do not nurture this illusion; otherwise, instead of knowing you will get entangled in information.

I have not written anything on your life’s page; if you have written something and ascribe it to me, I bear no responsibility. All my effort is to wipe off whatever you have written on your page. I want to take away all your accumulated information. I want to leave you in utter dispassion, empty of conclusions. Dispassion is nirvana. And that is what has happened. But your old habit of seeing and thinking keeps misinterpreting. That too is what has happened.

You say, “What did you write on the blank page of my life that my life itself has changed?”
I have written nothing—because writing has never changed anyone’s life. Writing only adds to what is already written. Whatever is written becomes a footnote to your book. Your book is very old. You carry a big scripture, a big ledger! If I write in it, that too will only become a footnote; nothing more. What you have written is your entire past. If I write in it, it will be lost in the heap. No, I am not trying to write.

This is the difference between a teacher and a master. A teacher writes; a master erases. A teacher teaches; a master frees you from what you have learned. A teacher gives knowledge; a master gives the art of going beyond knowledge. A teacher is not a master; a master is not a teacher. Their dimensions differ utterly.

A teacher gives you education, conditioning, discipline, a style, a way of life—he fills you with content and hands you certificates and degrees so you can believe you know. A master makes you blank; he teaches you how to unlearn.

A German thinker came to Ramana Maharshi and said, “I have come from far away hoping to learn something from you.” Ramana said, “Then you have come to the wrong place. Here we help people forget what they have learned. If you want to learn, go elsewhere. Come here only when you are ready to forget.”

What I am saying is exactly what has happened. Had that not happened, the change you feel would be impossible. Add anything to your old net, your ancient ruin—nothing will change; the ruin remains a ruin. Your past is vast; whatever new is added gets lost—like putting a spoonful of sugar in the ocean and expecting the ocean to turn sweet. It is not a question of putting sugar in you; the question is how to draw out your poison. And whatever you have been so far has been wrong. All you have done and thought has gone wrong. Your life has been only a problem. You have not known life’s mystery, nor entered its celebration. You got lost in a jungle of problems.

I am not giving you a doctrine. I am taking away your problems. But your interpretation is natural: whatever new happens, you will see it through old eyes.

You say, “What did you write on the blank page of my life that my life itself has changed?”
Life has changed because I have erased some scribbles from your page, given you a little space, a little emptiness. I have cleared some clutter, given you a little inner leisure. In that leisure the divine descends. When you are utterly empty, the divine enters. As long as you are full, there is no space for it to come in.

It rains on the mountains too, but mountains remain empty because they are already full. Valleys and hollows become lakes because they are empty. The divine is raining on all equally—on you as on me. But if you are full, you will remain empty; if you are empty, you will be filled.

Keep this mysterious law of life in mind. If you are like a mountain—your ego stiff like a peak—God will keep raining and you will miss. Become like a lake, like a hollow: egoless, humble, a nobody, not a claimant—an announcer of emptiness—and God will fill you. Disappear!

That is what Ashtavakra said: as long as “I am,” truth is not. Where the “I” is not, truth descends.

All my effort is to teach you this wondrous art of disappearing, of dying. That is why I say: I teach death—because that is the only door to supreme life. From this, the ray of transformation has entered you.

“The love and bliss I sought for lifetimes has come to me as an unasked-for gift of the Master’s grace.”
It is always unasked. Whatever is gained by asking is cheap. Anything obtained by begging loses its value. Only that which comes unasked is precious.

Remember, in this world if you go on asking like a beggar—that is what desire is. What is desire? Asking. “Give me this, give me that!” The more you ask, the more beggarly you become, and the more life seems filled with gloom. What you ask for never seems to come.

Swami Rama tells of walking down a lane one winter morning. A child was playing in the courtyard, trying to catch his shadow. He would leap, then tire and weep, and leap again. But when you leap your shadow leaps too. Rama watched and laughed. The child looked at him. Rama, a delightful sannyasin, went over and said, “What I did for lifetimes, you are doing now. I found a trick; shall I tell you?”
The boy, still sobbing, said, “Tell me—how do I catch it?”
Rama lifted the boy’s hand and placed it on his own forehead. “Look,” he said. The shadow’s hand also came to its forehead. The boy laughed with delight.
The mother said, “You’ve gone too far! Do you have children?”
Rama said, “I don’t. But the same has been my experience for lifetimes. As long as you run and grab, you get nothing. Put your hand on yourself, sit quietly; don’t extend your hand, don’t ask, don’t chase, drop the grabbing—and everything comes.”
He said, “I gave up one house, and the whole world became mine. I left one hut and courtyard, and the entire sky became my courtyard. Now the sun and moon move in my yard.”

Whatever is truly significant in your life will come unasked. It is not happening because you are full of asking; your asking is the obstacle. Do not ask. If you really want—do not ask. If you truly desire—drop desire. Then it happens by itself. It is not only that you are seeking God; God is seeking you. If only you were seeking and he were hiding, it would be difficult—there is no address. But he too is seeking you; his invisible hands come near—but they never find you at home. You are away, in some other search.

Two friends met one morning. One said, “I dreamed I went to the fair in the village. Such fun!” The other said, “What’s that! Last night I dreamed Hema Malini and I were in a boat on a full-moon night—Sharad Purnima!”
The first friend looked crestfallen: “Why didn’t you call me?”
The other replied, “I came by your house, but your mother said you had gone to the fair.”

God comes to you, but you are elsewhere—never at home. You seem to be here, but you aren’t. God, in his simplicity, looks for you where you appear to be, but you are not there. You may be sitting in Poona while you are in Delhi. You may be perched on a little stool outside an office—a peon—while imagining you are the president.

Wherever your thought runs, there you are. The body sits here like a corpse; God will look for you here. But your mind, trapped in the net of asking, is racing into the future. The day you ask for nothing, a revolution happens: that day you are at home. With no asking, there is nowhere to go. Asking drags you far—into stars and heavens and hells.

Asking creates time. I don’t mean clock-time. In your inner world, psychological time is born of wanting. You desire, therefore the future is born. If you do not desire, what future? If you do not think of tomorrow, what tomorrow? Then there is only today—better, only “now”—this very instant. This single instant is forever—the eternal now.

God is found unasked. When you do not ask, time disappears, the dreams of wandering dissolve. When you do not ask, you are exactly where you are, centered in yourself. Only there can God’s hand find you.

Thus Ashtavakra said: Know what is as it is. Be content with what is given. Then you will remain where you are—centered. Content with the given, accepting what is as it is, no hankering for pleasure, no strategies to escape pain—pleasure is pleasure, pain is pain—you remain a witness. In that very hour, unasked, the kingdom of heaven showers upon you. You do not go to heaven; heaven showers upon you.

“As an unasked-for gift of the Master’s grace.”
And the master is only a doorway. If you bow to the master, you bow at a door. The master is not a person; never think of the master as a person—otherwise you turn him into a wall.

The master is an event, an unprecedented phenomenon. If you bow and look through, you will see beyond the master. The master, in his essence, is not—precisely therefore he is. His non-being is his secret. Look intently and you will find him transparent—like pure glass, so clear you forget there is anything in between. The master is a transparent presence—nothing solid inside.

If you look intently—and you can only look intently when there is love, surrender, trust—then you will rivet your gaze, you will meditate on the master. You may have heard of meditating on the master; its meaning is not chanting his name, nor staring at his photograph. It is to look—to see his non-being, that he is not. See the dense emptiness present within him, the presence of absence. In that seeing, glimpses of the divine begin. The master is a gate.

Jesus said, “I am the door. I am the way.” He said it rightly—for disciples.

Whoever appears as your master, who resonates with your heart—meditate on him. This process we call satsang: sitting close to the master in silence, watching, peering within, silencing yourself, becoming thoughtless and empty, tasting the master’s presence. Taste it slowly; let his sweetness permeate you. Little by little, the master begins to rise within you, from your throat to your heart.

Bayazid, a Muslim fakir, once passed a cremation ground. Suddenly, from his innermost heart, a voice said, “Stop! Something is to happen here.” He sent his friends ahead. They protested: “This is a cremation ground—ghosts and dangers!” He said, “Something within says, ‘Stay.’ You go.” They left. Again the inner voice said, “Before sunset, gather many skulls.” He was a bit afraid—“What is this? Some spirit?”—but he trusted. He collected skulls. As he did, the voice said, “Look closely at each skull.” “What is there to see?” he thought. “All skulls are alike.” The voice insisted: “No two are alike. If no two men are alike, how can two skulls be the same? Look closely.”

He looked and was astonished. Some skulls had a wall between the ears—whatever entered one ear never reached the other. Some had a tunnel—what entered one ear exited the other. Some not only had a tunnel between the ears, but from its middle another passage descended into the heart. He was amazed. “We thought skulls were the same! O Lord, tell me the meaning!”

The voice said, “The first belong to those who seemed to hear but never heard. The second to those who heard but let it out the other ear—never digested. The third to those who heard and drank it into the heart. These third skulls belong to the satsangis—the ones who sat near.”

When I read this in Bayazid’s life, I loved it: the third skulls are the satsangis! They are worthy of honor.

Satsang means: being with the master. If he speaks, hear his words; if he is silent, hear his silence. If he asks you to do something, do it; if he asks you not to do, don’t. Be close, and let that closeness sink in. Vibrate with his vibration, fly a little with his inner sky.

Have you seen how bird parents teach the young to fly? Their wings are weak, but with the parents they dare. They go a little, tire, return. Next day, a little farther; the third day, farther still—until one day the whole sky is theirs. Then they no longer need the parents.

So it is with the divine. Flying a little with the master, your wings strengthen. Courage grows, trust in yourself is born. One day the outer master is no longer needed—your inner master has awakened. The outer master is only a device to awaken the inner one.

“For lifetimes I had been seeking, and now love and bliss have come as the unasked grace of the master.”
If you are free of asking, it happens. If you are near the master, prasad showers. It showers by closeness; nothing much to do. Someone has arrived; in his presence your life begins to flow in that current. Someone has flown; in his company you too begin to rise toward the sky; the weight of gravity lessens on you. Someone has discovered that flying happens—his whole sky is his own! In his presence your wings begin to quiver. That is all.

“I was not even worthy of it.”
Whenever this happens, you will certainly feel unworthy. God is so vast that no one can be worthy. Those who say, “I am worthy,” never attain. The unworthy do not attain, because their vessel is not prepared—cracked, inverted, or lidded. The worthy attain—but only when the worthy says, “I am utterly unworthy.” See the paradox! The unworthy do not attain because their vessel is unprepared; the worthy attain, but their essential flavor is the feeling: “I am unworthy.”

A worthy vessel has no cracks, is upright, and its lid is open. That is discipleship. But an essential sign of the worthy is the sense, “I am not worthy.” The event is so immense that even a sound vessel doubts it can contain it. Even after it happens, disbelief lingers.

Sufi fakirs say the bridge that joins the world to God inspires no confidence while you stand on this shore—because the other shore is invisible. Perhaps the bridge is dangling like Trishanku’s kingdom? And when you cross, even then you cannot quite believe it—because now the first shore is invisible. Doubt remains on both sides. The event is so vast—it exceeds understanding, therefore cannot be understood. The vessel is small; the prasad is boundless, ineffable.

Hence a disciple’s necessary sign is the awareness, “I am not worthy.” The claimant misses. The one who says, “I must receive—see how much austerity, fasting, vows, discipline, meditation, prayer I have done; I deserve it; injustice is being done to me,” will miss—because the claim is petty.

What has bowing in prayer to do with God’s meeting you? If you have practiced, you have already received its benefits: a little health from yoga, a little cheer from prayer’s music. What more? Your doing creates no claim. Thus claimants miss; non-claimants receive.

So do not become a claimant on the path. Never say, “Now I must get it; I have done all I could.” That very feeling becomes the obstacle. Know this: what can happen by my doing? I do because I cannot help but do. Still, what can my doing achieve? My hands are small; what is to be attained is vast. How will it fit in my fist?

A poet went to the Himalayas. He heard the glaciers sliding, their murmuring music. He brought home a bottle of glacial water for his beloved. When he poured it out, all he heard was “glug-glug.” He wondered, “What happened? There was such sweet sound when I saw the glaciers descending, icebergs floating, the river singing—where did it go?”
Try it yourself: bring a bottle of sea water from the shore where waves thunder and dance; pour it at home—all you hear is “glug-glug.” The roar and grandeur vanish.
Our bottles are too small. God’s ocean is greater than all oceans. Our understanding is too small. We cannot pour the infinite beauty, truth, or life into it. So do not become a claimant.

This is the sign of a disciple: to keep knowing, “I am not worthy”—and you become worthy. The day you truly say, “I am utterly unworthy,” the event happens. Everything descends in your non-being. In your being, everything is blocked.

“The treasure you have given me, I want to share. Kindly give instruction and blessing.”
Do not bring desire in between. If you want to distribute, it will go wrong. It will distribute—but wait. When you are truly full, it will overflow from above. Do not be in a hurry. If you make an effort to give, your ego can stand up again. And what was becoming knowing may degrade into information. Do not try—wait. As the happening came unasked, so will the sharing begin unasked. What happens? A vessel is placed in the rain; it fills and fills—then the water flows over. Great lakes fill and overflow; rivers flood when brimming.

When you are so full you cannot contain it, it will flow by itself. Wait for that. I will give no instruction—because any effort you make will spoil it. Your effort will distort. Say instead: “When you wish to flow, flow.” And when it begins to flow, do not stop it. Step out of the way—neither give nor prevent.

There are two kinds of people. Some, when a little light enters, immediately rush to share. Natural—what delights us, we want our loved ones to have. But if you try, you will stumble. If you are trying to tell it, you are not yet full. A pot makes noise until it is full; when full, it flows in silence. Let it go in silence. If you make noise, there will be obstacles.

Suppose a husband tastes a little meditation: he naturally wants to give it to his wife. But if he tries, she will become defensive and distrustful. Diamonds and jewels she accepts because she can see them. Meditation only you can feel; she cannot see it. She will say, “Have you lost your mind? What delusion have you fallen into?” Wives are practical, earthy, rooted. A man may fly a little; their roots are in the soil. “Think of the children! What meditation? We don’t even have enough money and you sit to meditate? You are still young—why this nonsense?” She will try to pull you back. When you were just sitting quietly for a bit, perhaps she was happy; but if you become ecstatic—this is “too much.”

I have heard: a young woman loved a man. She was Catholic; he was Protestant. Her mother said, “You cannot marry—different denominations. There is only one way: make him Catholic.” The girl tried, and reported progress: he even went to church; he was beginning to believe. After some months she came home crying. “What happened?” asked the mother. “I overdid it,” the girl said. “Now he wants to become a Catholic priest—and they are celibate!” She had gone too far.

Your wife may have sent you to meditate—but not to take sannyas. That is too much. Or a husband, weary of quarrels, may urge his wife to meditate—hoping for a bit of peace—but not to become a Meera, dancing beyond social norms. Even Meera’s family did not like it; they sent a cup of poison.

Do not be in haste, or others will obstruct. When something is budding within you, protect it, hide it. Kabir said: “Having found the diamond, knot it tight!” Tie a firm knot; let no one know. Thieves abound—jealous ones, obstructers. No one accepts easily that you have found meditation—it hurts their ego. They have not; how could you? Before them? Impossible! Announce your inner treasure and all will deny it.

There is Chamanlal sitting here. Yesterday he told me his problem: “Every two or three months I feel an urge to come to you, but the whole family obstructs—wife, sons, daughters, even neighbors. Even today my son came along to see what is going on. ‘Enough of orange robes; stay at home; don’t go further!’” His taste is ripening; something is happening. I can see it—something is being born. But everyone is eager to stop him; no one wants anyone to go beyond their limits.

Wives say, “Do it at home; why go there?” But where it happens, one longs to return—naturally. After a few months one wants to bathe again in that music, to be renewed, energized—otherwise life plateaus.

So do not say anything; if something is given, keep it safe and silent. When the hour to flow comes, it will flow by itself—and then no one will be able to obstruct. Before that, there will be obstacles.

For now, nurture what is happening. Wait. When God sees you are ready to be a channel, he himself will find the way through you. You need neither my instruction nor guidance. When the fruit is ripe, it falls. When clouds are full, they rain. Before that, guidance is a hindrance.

Therefore I do not give guidance. Leave it in his hands. Keep filling your inner being—and keep it hidden. Do not attempt to distribute. The urge will arise, but do not be trapped by it. And the day it begins to distribute itself, then beware of the opposite danger—do not try to stop it. If it wants to flow, let it flow. Do not, by over-guarding the jewel you had knotted, become so knotted that you cannot open. Live by God’s will. Say: “Thy will be done. If you want me to remain hidden, I will remain hidden. If you want no one to know, no one will know. If you want me to cradle you within and depart silently, I shall depart so. If you want me to sing, to climb the rooftops and awaken the sleeping, I am ready.”

But from your side, do not do anything. Whatever you do is bound to go wrong. Step out of the way—give him the way.

Truth is one. But truth has two aspects—one seen from this shore, and one seen from that shore. Two aspects—one is a glimpse caught in stupor, and the other is the experience in supreme awakening.

Therefore there are two interpretations of truth; truth itself is one. One interpretation pertains to the moment as I am speaking to you. What I am saying to you is not yet your truth. And if you take my truth to be your truth, you will fall into delusion. My truth is not your truth. So I tell you both. First I tell you your truth, because that is where your journey must begin. And then I tell you my truth—where you have to arrive.

Now, understand.

“You sometimes say: there is no person, only the whole; not even a leaf moves without His will.”
This I say—because of you; standing where you stand; standing in your shoes I say that not even a leaf moves without His will. I want you to put your ego aside and begin to move by His will—become His leaves! If His winds move you, sway; if His winds do not, then do not.

Look now: there is no wind, and the trees are standing still! Not even a leaf stirs. No one is troubled. No one is complaining, “Why aren’t we moving?” When the wind comes, they will move; when it doesn’t, they stand silent, in stillness—meditative, like yogis. And when the wind comes, they will dance like devotees. This I say from your side—that without His will, a leaf does not move. Because the truth is: He is in every leaf; so how could it move without His will? I am saying this for your sake, so that you drop your will and incline toward His will. I am telling you to dissolve the person and awaken in the whole; to leave the petty and move toward the vast; not to struggle but to surrender—that is why.

If you understand me and set out, then the second statement becomes true.

“And sometimes you say the individual’s freedom is so complete that there is no room for God there.”
If you accept what I say and dissolve the ego, then you yourself become God; now there is no room even for God. If you have dropped your ego, then your freedom is absolute, because you yourself are the Divine. Now, by your will, the whole world moves and is stirred. That is why it seems contradictory to you.

At one time I say: nothing happens by your will; not even a leaf moves without His will. And at another time I say: you are the master, you are everything! You are the one who moves the moon and the stars!

Someone asked Swami Ram in America, “Who created the world?” Swami Ram said, “I did.”
“Who moves the moon and the stars?”
He said, “I do.”
The questioner said, “Forgive me, but you seem to be saying something rather deranged! When you were not, who moved them?”
Ram said, “It has never happened that I was not.”
“Will you die or not?” the man asked.
Ram said, “It has never happened that I died, or that I could die.”

Where is the difficulty? The two are speaking in different languages. That man is seeing Ram’s form, shape, this body, this person. And Ram is speaking of That—where there is no person, no form, no body.

At last Ram said, “Listen, you are not understanding. I am not speaking about Ram. I am not saying that the moon and stars are moved by Ram, or that Ram created the world. I created it! I am beyond Ram!”

When Mansoor was crucified and he proclaimed Ana’l Haq—“I am the Truth”—the Muslims could not understand. They thought he was claiming to be God. They had seized upon the first statement—that not a leaf moves without His will. The second statement is not in their reckoning.

When the first is fulfilled, the second also happens. When you utterly lose yourself, only That remains. So when Mansoor said Ana’l Haq—“I am Truth, I am Brahman”—what was he saying? He was saying that Mansoor is no more; only Brahman remains. If Mansoor had said this in India, no one would have crucified him. We would have worshipped him for centuries, laid flowers at his feet. We would have said, “This is the essence of the Upanishads: Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman!”

These two statements are not opposites; they only appear so. One statement comes from where you stand, because the ego has to be dropped; and the other comes from where the ego is no more. Where the ego is not, only God remains—so utterly alone that even to say “God is” becomes irrelevant. To whom to say? About whom to say?

That is why Mahavira said: Appa so Paramappā! The self itself becomes the Supreme Self; there is no other God. There is nothing anti-God in this. Hindus misunderstood. This is the essence of the Upanishads.

That is why Buddha even said there is neither God nor self; because between these two a duality seems implied—that there are two. So Buddha said: As for That which is, I will say nothing. I will confine my statements to what is not—there is no self, there is no God. About That which is, I will say nothing. Drop both and know.

Hindus thought Buddha was a nihilist. No, this is the final proclamation of theism. There can be no statement higher than this.

The difficulty arises because the enlightened have to give both statements. One is from your side, because the journey must begin there. You will start from where you stand, won’t you? But if the statement ended there, where would you arrive? You would remain only walking. There must be an arrival. So there is the second statement. One is for the seeker; one is for the siddha.

This Ashtavakra Gita is the ultimate statement of the siddha state. There is no place for practice in it. Nothing is said for the seeker. It is the proclamation of the realized. It is the song of the siddha. That is why I have called it the Mahageeta.

In Krishna’s Gita, Arjuna is kept in view. Many things are said from Arjuna’s side. Slowly, slowly, slowly Krishna coaxes Arjuna onto the journey. Krishna’s Gita is engaged in persuading Arjuna somehow to board the boat and move toward the other shore. Here and there are a few hints of the other shore, where Krishna says: “Sarva-dharmān parityajya, mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja!” Abandon all, come to my refuge! There he proclaims the other shore. There he is not saying: take refuge in Krishna. He is saying: that which is the ultimate form of the I—mām ekaṁ; that “I alone!” In that “I alone,” you too are included. The “you” is not outside it. Mām ekam! In that “I,” all are included, because it is the one I.

This is very interesting. Your name may be Ram, another’s Vishnu, another’s Rahim, another’s Rahman. But have you noticed—inside, everyone calls oneself only “I”! Everyone! Rahim says “I,” Ram says “I,” Vishnu says “I,” Rahman says “I.” “I” seems to be the universal truth within all.

When Krishna says, mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja, he is saying: take refuge in this “I,” this one “I”—this is Brahman, this is the supreme truth—take refuge in this One, and drop everything! That is the proclamation of the other shore. But only here and there are such proclamations.

Between Janaka and Ashtavakra, the Mahageeta that happened contains nothing for the seeker; it is only the proclamation of the realized; only the proclamation of the other shore. It is the ultimate Mahageet. It is the song of the one who has arrived, who, in his ecstasy, sings the hymn of that realm. That is why Janaka could say: “Aho aham namo mahyam! Ah, wonder! I feel like bowing to myself!”
Have you ever heard anything more outrageous? “Let me bow to myself, worship myself, perform my own arati, offer naivedya (offerings) to myself!”—this is the proclamation from the other shore.

Whenever I speak to you, I keep both in mind. I do not forget your being Arjuna. If I were to forget that, you would gain nothing. That is why not much benefit has come from Ashtavakra’s Mahageeta, because it is the voice of the realized. It will be understood when someone is realized; but someone will only understand it when he is realized, no? There is no path of practice in it. It is talk of the goal. There is nothing of method in it.

More benefit has come from Krishna’s Gita, because there the seeker is addressed. If you walk by Krishna’s Gita, one day you will arrive at Ashtavakra’s Mahageeta.

I keep in view where you stand. So sometimes I speak from your side. But I do not always speak from your side. I must be fair to myself too. Sometimes I speak from my side as well. Have some compassion on me too!

Between the two you may sometimes feel a contradiction, but it is only an appearance.

There is no need to make a rule. It will depend on the situation. If someone asks out of idle curiosity, be silent; if out of sincere inquiry, say something. If out of a longing for liberation, then pour out everything you know. It depends on the situation.

So I cannot give you a straight order to speak or to keep quiet. I can only give this guidance: look into the eyes of the one who asks. If you feel it is only curiosity, childish curiosity, then remain silent. Your silence will help. Curiosity is like an itch—scratching doesn’t end it; the skin gets scraped and a wound forms. Just stay quiet.

But if someone asks with true inquiry—seems sincere, a seeker, asking because he may be looking for the path—then do speak. And if you feel he is a real mumukshu—not just intellectually curious, but searching with his whole being, ready to risk his life—then open your heart completely.

All I can say is: there is no need to cling to a formula in life, because circumstances change every day. If you hold on to a dead formula, you create many obstacles; things keep going awry.

There is an old Zen story. In one village there were two temples, and between them an ancient quarrel. The priests would not even speak to each other. Each priest had a small boy who bought vegetables and did errands. The priests told the boys, “Don’t speak to the other one if you meet on the way. Our quarrel is very old—thousands of years. We consider that temple hell. Don’t talk to that boy.”

But children are children. The more you forbid them, the more their curiosity grows. One day the boy from the first temple stood in the market. When the boy from the second temple came by, he asked, “Where are you going?” The other boy—after hearing the wise talk of the wise—had also become “wise.” He said, “Wherever the wind takes me!” The first boy was puzzled—how to continue the conversation now? “Wherever the wind takes me”—that ended everything! He returned dejected. He told his master, “By mistake I spoke to him. I asked, ‘Where are you going?’ You had forbidden me; forgive me. But I am only a child. Truly, those people are a mess. I asked a simple question, and he began to show off spirituality: ‘Wherever the wind takes me!’ And off he went like the wind!”

The priest said, “I told you they are wrong. Now do this: tomorrow ask him again. When he says, ‘Wherever the wind takes me,’ say, ‘If the wind isn’t blowing, then what?’”

Next day the boy asked again, “Where are you going?” The other replied, “Wherever my feet take me.” Now there was trouble. The prepared answer didn’t fit. He came back and said, “They are cheats. You were right. Yesterday he said, ‘Wherever the wind takes me’; today he said, ‘Wherever my feet take me.’”

The priest said, “I told you—there’s no trusting their words. You can’t debate with them. They say anything as the occasion suits them—opportunists! So be ready tomorrow: if he says ‘Wherever the wind takes me,’ ask, ‘What if there’s no wind?’ If he says ‘Wherever my feet take me,’ say, ‘God forbid, if you become crippled, then?’”

He went, armed with two answers. He asked again, “Where are you going?” The other boy said, “To buy vegetables!”

I don’t give you answers; I only give you an indication: look closely at the one who asks, understand his state, and act as is appropriate.

Life never needs to be run by fixed rules. That is how a person slowly becomes dead. Keep life awake. Live by awareness, not by doctrine. Live by alertness, not by rigid beliefs. Let there be only one discipline: do nothing without consciousness. All other disciplines are futile.

Hari Om Tat Sat!