Maha Geeta #36

Love and truth are not two events; they are two facets of one event. Realize truth and love manifests. Realize love and truth is directly revealed. Set out in search of truth and, upon reaching the goal, you find yourself entering the temple of love as well. You went looking for truth—love arrived alongside. Or travel by the path of love; the moment you arrive at love’s temple, truth will be there. They go together. Love and truth are two names of the Divine.

There are, however, two kinds of people in the world. For some, attaining truth is easy—love follows as its fragrance. For others, love is easy—truth comes as its consummation. Hence knowledge (jnana) and devotion (bhakti) are the two fundamental paths. Woman and man are the two primordial polarities.

And when I say woman and man, don’t seize it in any crude, conventional sense. Many men carry a heart as full of love as a woman’s; many women carry a reason that searches for truth like a man’s. First recognize yourself rightly. Recognition of the Divine comes later. Don’t choose a path that doesn’t sit well with you. What feels natural and effortless to you—that is your path.

In the search for truth, the final fruit is this: “Thou” disappears, an explosion of “I” happens—Aham Brahmasmi, “I am Brahman; there is no other Brahman!” In the quest for truth, freedom from the other is the method.

Listen carefully, because what is a method on the path of truth becomes a hindrance on the path of love; and what is a method on the path of love becomes a hindrance on the path of truth. They set out from different directions—toward the same destination. One comes to India from the West, another from the East. The one who leaves England moves eastward; the one who leaves Japan moves westward. Both are coming to India. They will arrive at one place, but they have set out from very different points.

The seeker of truth drops the “Thou.” That is why Mahavira and Buddha do not accept God. God means a Thou, an Other—the One before whose feet you worship, to whom you make offerings, before whom you bow. God means the Other. Therefore Buddha and Mahavira deny God. Patanjali accepts God only with great reserve—and in a way that is itself almost a denial. Patanjali says: Ishvara-pranidhana—devotion to God—too is a method, a technique; it is not necessary, not indispensable. Whether God exists or not is not the point here; it is a method. Suppose it works—then fine. It is a device.

All knowers will deny God in one way or another. Shankara says even Ishvara is a part of Maya. Aham Brahmasmi! My ultimate nature is Brahman. But that Ishvara enthroned in the temple—that is but a form of Maya, a part of the world. The world means the other, the second. The moment you step outside yourself, you are in the world. Whether you go to the temple or to a shop or to the market, it makes no difference—if you go outside yourself, you have gone into the world. The temple and the shop are not so different.

The seeker of truth says: forget the other. It is because of the other that the waves arise. One runs after woman, one runs after wealth, one runs after God. The seeker of truth says: drop all running. What is to be attained is seated within you.

Ashtavakra’s way too is the way of truth; therefore he emphasizes witnessing. Become a witness—so profoundly that in the fire of witnessing the “other” is burned to ash. What remains is “I.” Only then can you bow to yourself. If no one remains, to whom will you bow? At whose feet will you place your head? If only the Self remains, then only the Self is to be saluted.

The seeker of love moves in precisely the opposite direction. He says: the self is to be erased. Everything is to be surrendered to the Divine. Let only Thou remain. Thou, only Thou—let me not remain. Let me melt, dissolve, disappear—be absorbed in You. Let only You remain!

That is why Islam—Islam is a path of love—could not tolerate Mansur. For Mansur declared: Ana’l-Haqq! “I am the Truth!” Islam could not bear it. Islam is the path of devotion; this proclamation is contrary to devotion. If you yourself are Brahman, then what devotion, what God? Then there is neither devotion nor God, neither worship nor remembrance. Whom would you remember? Remembrance is always of the other. Had Mansur been born in India, we would have counted him among the great seers, the Brahma-rishis. He was born in Arabia—he was hanged.

The Jews could not tolerate Jesus either, for Jesus said: “I and my Father who sent me—we are one. He who is above and that which is below—one.” This declaration did not please the Jews. To the devotee, this sounds difficult; it sounds like an announcement of ego—ultimate heresy. No greater sin is possible.

Try to understand, because the entire structure of devotion is different. There, the “I” is to be melted away. There, the day must come when one can say: I am not; Thou alone art.

There is a famous story of Jalaluddin Rumi. A lover came to his beloved’s door and knocked. From inside the beloved asked, “Who is there? Who knocks at the door?” The lover said, “It is I—your lover. Don’t you recognize me?” Inside, silence. A very sad silence. No answer came. The lover knocked again, louder: “Have you forgotten me?” The beloved said, “Forgive me. There is no room here for two. Two cannot fit in this house. Love’s lane is very narrow—two cannot pass. And you say, ‘I am—your lover!’ Go back for now. Return when you have ripened.”

The lover went away—wandering through forests and mountains, meditating, asking, weeping, singing, thinking, reflecting—How? How may I gain entry? Days passed; moons waxed and waned; suns rose and set; months and years went by. Then one day the lover returned. He knocked at the door. The beloved asked, “Who?” The lover said, “Ask no more—now only You are, only You.” They say the door opened—opened at once! These are the doors of the Divine.

So, in love, surrender is the way—burn yourself to ash. In truth, there is refinement, a fierce cutting away—cut everything false and, ultimately, sever all connection with the other: become unrelated, unattached. Yet the wonder is that both arrive at the same place. How? When the knower drops the “Thou,” the “I” cannot survive. “I” and “Thou” survive together; they are two sides of one coin. How will you say “I am” when there is no “Thou?” When the knower’s “Thou” falls, how will he save the “I?” It cannot be saved. Without the support of “Thou,” “I” has no meaning. If there is no Thou, what is the meaning of I? What use is it? Whom are you calling “I?” We call “I” only that which is opposite to Thou, different from Thou, separate from Thou.

You have fenced your house, built walls—but that is because there is a neighbor. If there were no neighbor, for whom would you put up a fence? Imagine you were alone on Earth—would you draw boundaries around your house? For whom, against whom? A boundary requires two. With one, no boundary is possible—there must be the other, the neighbor. When “Thou” has fallen, how will “I” remain?

Thus the knower drops the Thou. And in the end, when the Thou has utterly fallen—when the crutch is gone—suddenly he sees that along with it the “I” too has fallen. Emptiness remains.

The same happens to the lover. He erases the “I.” On the day the “I” is completely gone, how will the “Thou” remain? When no one is left to say “Thou,” when the worshipper is gone, when the devotee is no more—how will the Worshipped remain? When the devotee is gone, how can God remain? God can remain only with the devotee. The devotee goes—becomes nothing—then what meaning remains for “God?” What use? On the very day the devotee becomes empty, God too takes leave.

All play is of two; without two there is no play. The whole world is dual—dvaita. Erase one in any way, and the other drops of itself. Remove one, and the other is removed. They walk together. As a man walks on two legs—if one is broken, how will he walk? A bird flies on two wings—cut one, will it fly? How can it fly with one?

Man-woman—by two the world runs. Wipe out all women—will men remain? For how long? Wipe out all men—will women remain? For how long? This play runs by twoness. Where only one remains, know that in truth neither remains.

That is why knowers, devotees, lovers, the realized, have not called the Divine “one,” but “non-dual”—Advaita. Advaita means: not two. To say “one” is risky, because “one” is defined by “two.” If we say “only one remains,” how will you define it, where will you draw its boundary? One’s boundary is made by two, two’s by three, three’s by four—this expansion goes on and on. Therefore we chose a unique word: Advaita—not two. Ask one who has realized the ultimate truth: Is the Divine one or two? He will not say one or two; he will say: not two. That is all that can be said; beyond this it cannot be said. Neither one nor two. Only this much is certain: not two. Beyond this, speech is neither meaningful nor capable.

So whether you go by love or by the search for truth—a moment comes when neither the other remains nor you remain. What remains is essence, completeness. The devotee will call what remains “God”; the knower will call it “the Self.” It is only a difference of language and description; the reality is the same.

Therefore the most important thing is to find out: Where are you? What are you? How are you? Do not set out on a mistaken path. A path that does not match you cannot take you there. A path that does not arise from you cannot bring you to your destination. Your path should spring from your own heart—like the spider spins its web, drawing it from within itself. So too the seeker weaves the pathway of his life from within himself.

If you can weave a web of love, then devotion is your path. Then, whatever Ashtavakra may say, don’t worry; listen to Narada; drink in Chaitanya and Meera. But if you find that threads of love do not rise from your heart, no web of love forms—do not panic, do not sit and weep. There is no hindrance; there is a way for each. The very moment you were born, your way was born with you. It lies within you, waiting in your innermost being. Perhaps the path of truth is yours. Then do not flutter around Narada. However many songs Meera sings, close your ears to them; do not get entangled there—that entanglement will prove costly. Follow only what arises naturally and spontaneously from within.

Whoever is wherever he is—
he is offered to Truth.
These flowers and this sunlight,
the rippling fields, the river’s bank—
are they not prayers?
This very personhood,
offered to the Beyond—what else is it not?

Look carefully at a flower upon the tree—the tree’s prayer. That is the tree’s way of praying. It is not only humans who pray. Will you accept it only if a tree goes to the temple and pours Ganga water on Shiva? Only then will you accept it? The tree daily showers its flowers upon Shiva, drops its leaves, worships with its life-breaths—will you not accept this? Whoever is wherever he is…

Whoever is wherever he is—
he is offered to Truth.
These flowers and this sunlight,
the rippling fields, the river’s bank—
are they not prayers?

Prayers will be different, in different forms. There is diversity in the world—and the world is beautiful because of this diversity.

So when a Muslim bows in a mosque, do not think it is wrong. When a Hindu rings the bells in a temple, do not be annoyed. When a Christian hums in a church, or a Buddhist sits in his shrine in meditation—know this: whoever is wherever he is, is offered to Truth. Incense and flowers too are praying. The whole world is immersed in prayer; waterfalls hum their songs.

Women will go in women’s ways, men in men’s ways. Once you understand that you have to discover your own way, you will drop trying to drag others onto your road.

Much harm has been done in the world. The wife drags the husband to the temple she attends; the father drags the son to his temple. This has bred irreligion, because people are not offered a way befitting their nature. I have traveled for years and seen: someone is born in a Jain home—what a misfortune for him! He has a heart for devotion, but in a Jain home there is no provision for devotion—only the echo of meditation. Another is born in a devotional lineage, the Vallabha tradition—but he has no taste for devotion; fragrance rises in him from meditation, but by birth he is set against it. Does religion ever come by birth? Religion comes by nature. Nature is religion. Birth is a coincidence. In what house you were born does not determine your religion!

If the world truly wants to be religious, we must drop the old habit of thrusting children into a religion by force. Leave all doors open for the children. Let them sometimes go to the mosque, sometimes to the temple, sometimes to the gurdwara. Let them search. Give them only one flavor: that the Divine is to be sought—that is enough. How you seek—whether the Quran gives you your music or the Gita—let it be your choice. Arrive at the house of the Divine. Whether you arrive reciting Quranic ayats or chanting the mantras of the Gita—it makes no difference. Just arrive; don’t get stuck anywhere. Blessed will be the day when in a single home there are people of many religions—the wife goes to the mosque, the husband to the gurdwara, the son to the church. Until such a day comes, religion cannot flower in the world. Because religion has nothing to do with birth. So search for your own way.

This is my message to those who are with me. That is why I speak on all paths. Sometimes you are startled. People come to me and say, “Please speak only on one stream, so we can settle down to the work. Sometimes you speak on devotion, sometimes on knowledge. Sometimes you say, ‘Drown yourself’; sometimes you say, ‘Be a witness.’ Sometimes Ashtavakra, sometimes Narada—we get bewildered.”

You are not bewildered because I am speaking in many streams; you are bewildered because you have not yet recognized your own flavor. I am speaking so that you may recognize your flavor. I open all these scriptures before you so that you may discover your own resonance.

It happened that in England, during the Second World War, a man was wounded in battle and fell—he lost his memory. Great difficulty. Even the loss of his name was no hindrance; but on the way back from the battlefield he also lost his identification tag. Who is he—no one could tell. A psychologist suggested that he be taken around the villages of England; perhaps, seeing his own village, memory might return—where he was born, where he played beneath certain trees, where he bathed by a certain river. Perhaps the air of that village, its peculiar feel, would draw back his forgotten memory.

So they took him from village to village. He stood at stations, but his eyes remained blank. By good fortune and coincidence, the train stopped at a station where it did not usually stop—because another train had to pass, it had to wait.

The man looked down from the window, and his face lit up. His eyes, empty till now, filled. Without a word to his companions he got down. He began to run. His companions ran after him. “Have you gone mad?” “No,” he said, “I was mad till now—now I’ve come to my senses! This is my village. These trees, this station… Come with me.”

He ran through lanes and alleys and stopped at the door of a house. “This is my house, and that is my mother.”

Just so, I open scriptures before you—now Ashtavakra, now Narada, now Mahavira, now Buddha, now Sufis, now Hasidim, now Zen—in the hope that wherever your nature resonates, at some station, you will say, “I’ve come home.” Somewhere your eyes will suddenly light up; you will begin to run, you will begin to dance. Somewhere, suddenly, you will feel a thrill, an upsurge of joy.

That is why I speak on so many paths, because I hold this: there are as many paths as there are kinds of people. These two are the main streams—of knowledge and of love. Then there are smaller streams within each.

By love one certainly arrives; it isn’t as clean-cut as the path of truth. Love’s path is misty—that is its joy, its flavor. The path of truth is like the noonday sun overhead—everything is starkly clear. Love’s path is like the evening—sunset has happened, and the stars have not yet come out: the twilight hour. That is why devotees call their prayer “sandhya,” the twilight. The language of devotion is the language of twilight—hazy, suffused with the nectar of love.

In the dusk’s dimness,
a path opens.
A path at whose far end
a soft lamp glows,
a little flame quivers.
In the dusk’s dimness,
a path opens.

On tiptoe
a radiance beckons me,
takes my hand,
strolls along with me.
In the dusk’s dimness,
a path opens.

Inside and out
something begins to shimmer.
The day’s weariness and stifled ache
begin to melt.
In the dusk’s dimness,
a path opens.

At each step, a Prayag;
at each moment, a confluence.
Your love
ripens in my breath.
In the dusk’s dimness,
a path opens.

The path of love is hazy. The path of rasa is a path of intoxication. The path of knowledge is witnessing; the path of love is sweet unconsciousness. The path of knowledge is understanding, wisdom; the path of love belongs to the intoxicated, the revelers. On the path of knowledge, meditation is the method. On the path of love—prayer, kirtan, dance, song. The path of knowledge crosses a desert; the path of love goes through bowers and forests—through Vrindavan.

The seeker of knowledge, the searcher of truth, wields a keen intellect—he cuts like the edge of a sword. Truth’s path is the path of negation: keep cutting the false, keep breaking the inessential; what remains unbroken—that is the essential. Love’s path breaks nothing, cuts nothing. On the path of love there is no renunciation, no dispassion. On the path of love, the very passion already in you becomes the bridge; the little flame of love already lit within you is deepened. Love’s path is the path of trust.

I sing
each song with a tender trust.
On the billowing sky,
clashing with the stars,
this sound near you
will one day resound.

I place
each step with sturdy faith.
Stumbling over
the bumps of darkness,
from these, some day,
a ruddy ray will burst.

The devotee proceeds by groping. He says, “I have trust; someday I will arrive.” He is not in a hurry; he is not restless. He does not wish that something should happen quickly. The devotee says, “Let this game continue—what is the hurry? O Lord, let this hide-and-seek go on. You hide, I search. I come near, you hide again. I seek and seek and cannot find. Let this rasa, this lila, continue.” For the devotee it is lila, play. For the knower it is a difficult path, not a play—serious business, entanglement, the bondage of coming and going; he wants freedom from it.

These are different languages; both are true. And the truth of one does not make the other false—keep this in mind. Often the mind thinks: if one is right, the other must be wrong. Life is vast—it accommodates even opposites. Life is not as small and narrow as you think. It is a matter of perspective. To the knower, life seems a snare—“When will I be free?” For the knower the ultimate step is liberation—moksha. The devotee does not talk of liberation; the word moksha does not belong to the language of bhakti—he says Vaikuntha. “We will play here; we will play there too. Here you played your flute, play it there as well. Here we danced; there we shall dance.”

No, the devotee says, “I do not want liberation. Bind me in your bonds—endlessly, endlessly. Bind me in as many bonds as you can; I want to be bound to you.”

Both are true. The point is only this: choose what feels true to you. Drop the other—forget it. Don’t get into confusion. And then, that which feels true, which matches your nature, which strikes your heart—from that weave your web. But remember the spider.

The ancient scriptures say: the Divine spun the world like a spider’s web—out of Himself. From where else would He spin it? There was nothing else from which to draw it—so He drew it from within Himself.

Everything comes from within. Look at a seed: hidden in it is a great tree. Just plant it in the soil, let the season come, let the rains fall—and one day you will find a tree has burst forth, buds have appeared. The tree lay hidden in the seed. It emerges from within.

A scientist in Japan did an experiment—almost miraculous. He wondered: does the entire plant come from the seed alone, or does it take a great deal from the soil? He set up a pot, carefully measured exactly how much soil it contained, weighed everything to the last grain. He recorded precisely how much water he added each day. The plant grew, grew large. Then he removed the plant, washed its roots clean—did not allow even a speck of soil to cling. When he weighed the soil again, he was astonished—it was as much as before. The soil had not diminished. The entire plant had issued out of the seed—from that “emptiness” it had manifested. In the same way, one day the whole existence has manifested out of the Divine.

You too carry your whole existence within you like a seed. But you must discern which seed lies within—love or truth. Only these two seeds exist in the fundamental sense. Either resolve (sankalpa) or surrender (samarpana). Resolve is a formidable path. That is why Vardhaman is called Mahavira by the Jains. It is a profound struggle. His very name became “Mahavira” in time; people forgot “Vardhaman.” Such struggle! There is no surrender there—only resolve. Mahavira says: ashrana—“Do not take refuge in anyone!”

Buddha, at the moment of his death, said: Appo deepo bhava—“Be a light unto yourself, Ananda.” Let no other be your way-shower.

Krishnamurti says: “I am no one’s guru, and do not, by any means, make anyone your guru.” He is right. The seeker of truth needs no supports. He walks utterly alone. Alone—therefore the desert. Poetry does not arise there.

Many times Jains have asked me to speak on Kundakunda. I do not. Many times I pick up Kundakunda’s text and think, I should speak. Kundakunda is dear! But the matter is of the desert. There is no poetry there—not even the possibility of poetry. To be born, poetry needs a small stream of love; otherwise flowers do not bloom, green does not sprout, songs do not echo. Everything is dry.

To dry out—that is precisely the path of the seeker of truth. Dry out so thoroughly that all rasa dries up. That is what we call dispassion—when all flavor is gone.

So you must search within. If it seems to you that the desert itself invites you, that the desert calls, challenges—then there is no harm. The desert is your garden. But test it within yourself—look within.

And one more criterion will help on the touchstone: whenever you find a path beginning to fit you, you will bloom at once; peace will descend at once—as if the notes suddenly harmonize, you have found your ground, your season has come—your time to fruit and flower. Sometimes it happens that, just hearing someone’s words, at once something like a click happens within—the doors open. Sometimes, seeing someone, suddenly love wells up. Sometimes, coming near someone, suddenly a deep peace surrounds you, fountains of joy begin to flow. This does not happen without cause. Wherever your resonance matches, wherever your wavelength aligns—there it happens.

Here, as I speak, it is plainly visible—who is stirred, who is not. Some sit like stones; some begin to sway. Some hearts are touched; some remain entangled in the head.

You, who sit in the midst of my path,
a heavy, weighty body—
why have you settled like a rock?
Say something!
Why does my music
not touch you?
If you cannot speak,
then sway—at least sway!

The road of ragas
cannot be blocked.
Drop your stony obstinacy;
join your heart to mine.
From you too
honeyed words will resound—
only come a little
into the flow of my current!

Whenever your resonance is found somewhere, then drop all other concerns. Where the boulder of your mind begins to melt, where waves arise in your heart—hardened like a rock—where you begin to sway, as a snake sways to the sound of a flute… You will be amazed—snakes have no ears. Scientists were in difficulty when they discovered that a snake has no ears, yet it sways to the flute. If it cannot hear, how does it sway? Perhaps the flutist is deceiving us, they thought—he has trained the snake. So they seated the flutist far away and drew a curtain in between—perhaps the flutist sways and the snake, seeing him, sways; a snake has eyes, if not ears. But even with a curtain, the snake swayed. Then a unique fact was discovered: the snake has no ears, but the waves produced by the flute set his entire body vibrating. He does not hear; his whole being sways.

When something truly touches you, your whole being sways. Therefore, follow that which makes you sway. Wherever the rasa starts to dissolve within you—that is your path. Then do not listen to what others say. Listen to your own heart and set out along the trail of your own flavor.

Certainly.
I am not saying anything to convince your intellect. My effort here is not to placate your mind. Sometimes I speak on devotion—then the effort is that your heart be stirred. Sometimes I speak on knowledge—then the effort is that you transcend both heart and intellect and become a witness. But I never speak for the intellect. The intellect is like an itch: the more you scratch… While scratching it feels pleasant; afterward a great soreness comes.
I am not speaking for your intellect, not for your head. Either I speak for the heart, or I speak for that which is beyond both—beyond heart and intellect. Either for the witness, or for your feeling. Either for your love, or for the awakening of truth within you.
And the greatest benefit will be for those who listen by putting the intellect aside. Heard through the intellect, nothing much is heard. Merely hearing the words is not hearing.
What I am speaking—the sound of it should begin to resonate in you; you should sway like a snake. I am not giving an argument here—it is a presence. Be stirred by this presence!
Something auspicious is happening; don’t worry. When this happens, anxiety arises: you came to listen, and what is this—only sound keeps echoing! It feels as if nothing has come into your hands. You thought you would return with some knowledge, that the scripture of your intellect would get a little thicker, that you would go back carrying a little more weight—what is happening? No doctrines are coming into your hands; music is. You had not come to receive music; you had not even thought of it. So the mind becomes anxious. And it seems, “Are we losing something?” For in life we have only ever collected words, collected doctrines. Naturally our past says, “What are you doing? Accumulate something, grab some knowledge, collect a few ideas—you’ll need them later.”
Do not fall into the mind’s persuasion. If you begin to hear music, if sound begins to be heard, if an inner wave begins to rise, then you have gone beyond words. Music goes beyond words. That is why music moves everyone. Music is not limited by language. Speak Hindi; only one who knows Hindi will understand. Speak Chinese; only one who knows Chinese will understand. For one who does not, it is all futile. But play the veena—play the veena anywhere in the world…
There was a world poets’ conference in Switzerland. Two poets went from India—one a Hindi poet and one in Urdu. The Urdu poet was Sagar Nizami. Curiously, the Hindi poet was heard out of courtesy, but there were no requests for “Again, again!” With Sagar Nizami people went mad; many requests came, “Once more, once more.” Sagar Nizami himself was astonished—“What’s the matter? They don’t understand anything!” But the cadence, the song, could be grasped. The words could not. The Hindi poetry was modern—no rhyme, no meter, no rhythm. They listened; if they had understood the language perhaps something would have been understood; without the language, nothing remained. For six hours people kept listening to Sagar Nizami again and again. They tired him out, but he was amazed. Later he asked, “What is this? You don’t understand, do you?” They said, “Understanding is not the point. What you sing—the tune—seizes us; it churns the heart. We did not understand, yet we did.”
What I am speaking here: if only the words are understood, then only the circumference is understood. If the music is grasped, the center is grasped. If you go away carrying only words, you will become a little more clever—you were already clever, and the illness worsens. If the music is caught, you will go away simple. Even the cleverness you brought will be left here.

I am full, overflowing—full, and the sky overflowing too.
Today the clouds drizzle; today my eyes drizzle too.
What corner of the sky is empty today,
What corner of life and mind is empty today?
Yet I rain, and the sky rains too—
Today the clouds drizzle; today my eyes drizzle too.

Silence has found a voice—glory to love;
And still the thirst of the heart is unsated.
I have found the note; today I seek the song,
I have found the note; today I seek the singing.
I have heard the echo; I search for the sound.
I have found the body; today I seek the mind.
I have heard the echo; I search for the sound.

Words are like the body, like the form; the essence hidden within them is the soul of the words. When you begin to sway, when my sound begins to surround you, when you begin to be lost in my sound, when my sound intoxicates you like a wine—then you have touched the very life-breath; then you have touched the original note!

O bearer of the flute! Play your flute so,
So oblivion-causing that, leaving all fringes and forests,
I may walk behind you,
Enchanted, bowed, consciousness smitten.
Om tatsat, tatsat forever.
O bearer of the flute! Play your flute so,
So that all else is forgotten,
I may follow behind you,
Enchanted, bowed, consciousness struck dumb.

What I am saying is only on the surface; what I am giving you is very different from words, and far deeper. The words are to keep you engaged, so that, while you remain entangled in them, I can fill the vessel of your heart—fill it with Om tatsat!
Words are a net of logic; the doors of life do not open there. In fact, because of logic many people remain wandering astray.
Listen to my words, but peer a little deeper. Do not remain stuck on the surface. On the surface are waves; go a little deeper—take a plunge. If you dive into my words, you will taste the nectar of emptiness—that is their resonance. And this is not in your control to force. It happens only when it happens; when it happens, it happens.
The one who has asked is already experiencing it. It is Anand Tirth’s question. So now don’t start desiring it; otherwise there will be a hurdle. Don’t do this—that tomorrow you sit tight, determined, that “today let more happen, let it go deeper”—you will miss. It is already happening. Don’t come in between; don’t even desire it; don’t wait for it; don’t expect it—and then it will keep going deeper. If you expect it and start waiting, then the intellect comes in, calculation comes in, a blockage comes in. Then you will suddenly find that now it no longer happens. It was never happening because of your doing.
This question is three or four days old; I had not answered it. I held it back knowingly—let it be a little longer, let the juice become a little more dense.

Because otherwise, by my saying something, a lust may arise within you: “This is good—now let more happen!” Wherever “more” comes in, the mind comes in. Wherever there is a demand, the mind comes in. And where demand arises, there you become a mendicant; there you become a beggar; there poor and weak!

There are moments
that slip free of space and time.
They do occur,
but when do we repeat such moments?
Or do we bring them?
Their arising, their being lived, their being enjoyed
is self-accomplished, wholly self-fulfilled—
that is why we sing.

So when the humming comes, sing. When the sound seizes you, drown in it, take the plunge. When it does not come, don’t sit taut and waiting. They are gusts of wind; when they come, they come. In the same way, the gusts of the Divine also come. It is not in human hands to drag them in. They come as grace.

Just keep this much in mind. All is turning auspicious. Only let no demand be made. Otherwise the old habit of the human mind is that wherever it finds pleasure, it generates demand—and right there the obstacle appears. Do not even speak of repeating. In life no experience can be repeated. It will happen, again and again; but do not aspire to repeat. It will happen more and more; but do not aspire to repeat.

You simply accept whatever the Lord gives. The day He gives—gratitude. The day He does not—gratitude that day too. For on the day He does not, understand that today there was no need, no necessity. On the day He gives, understand there was a need.

Sannyas is only a manner, a pretext for relating. It is a device for relating. When you take someone’s hand in your own, do we ask, “Is holding hands mandatory to express love?” When we press someone to our chest, do we ask, “Is embracing essential for love to be?” It isn’t essential. Love can be, even without an embrace. But when love is, will you be able to refrain from embracing?

Listen again.
Love can be there without holding hands. But when love happens, will you be able to keep from taking each other’s hands? They go together. These are expressions. To the one you love, you take some offering—if not a flower, then at least a petal. Is bringing a gift essential for love? Not at all. But when love is there, there is a longing to give.

What is sannyas? Sannyas is a declaration that I am ready to give myself. Sannyas is a declaration: take my hand in yours. Sannyas is a declaration that if you take my hand in yours, I will not pull it away and run. Sannyas is simply a gesture of feeling—and very precious. It is an inner expression: I am with you; you too remain with me.

You ask, “Is sannyas essential in order to be related to you?”
And the one who has asked will not be able to avoid sannyas for long. The very asking shows that now the matter has arisen in the very breath of life. Now a difficulty has come. Now it will not be possible to remain without taking sannyas; the challenge has arrived. There is fear too—hence the question. But whenever something creative is born in life, whenever a creative direction opens, then however many fears there may be, in spite of them one has to go.
You have heard the call. That is why you are weeping, that is why you are watching. How long will you go on weeping, how long will you go on gazing from afar? The doors are open—enter.

“I have not yet taken sannyas, nor have I met you personally.”
Perhaps even meeting personally frightens you. And take care when you come, for you may arrive and I may give you sannyas! You will not be able to hide. Can love be hidden? Try a thousand tricks—you will not be able to conceal it. The moment you come before me I shall recognize you: You are the one who was weeping; you are the one who was watching. So think before you come!

In truth, you come before me only when the readiness for surrender has ripened in your life—when you are willing to let go, ready to bow, ready to enter into alliance with my emptiness. This too is a kind of marriage. These are also seven rounds. This garland that is placed around your neck is no less than a noose. It is a device to erase you. These robes dyed in the ochre, the colors of fire, are not for nothing—the funeral pyre is prepared. Only when you are effaced will the divine manifest within you.

Sannyas is courage—indomitable courage. And my sannyas, even more so. Because of it you will receive no honor. There will be no worship, no pageantry, no procession. Wherever you go, there will be obstacles and entanglements—wife, children, father, mother, family, shop, customers—wherever you go, hurdles will arise. I am, in fact, creating for you a continual disturbance. But if you can endure this disturbance peacefully, from this very endurance the witness will be born. If you are willing to bear it for the sake of my love, from this very endurance devotion will be born.

The cloud thundered,
in the dark sky the cloud thundered.
Down came the rain,
with the roar of a deluge it came.
Shattering the peaks of the mountains,
sweeping sharp torrents along,
carrying thousands of dense, misty waterfalls,
it is saying to the river:
Rise, O rise!
For many lives to come,
fill yourself today—
the cloud has thundered.

This is what I am calling to you again and again: Rise; fill yourself…

Rise, O rise!
it says to the river,
carrying thousands of dense, misty waterfalls,
sweeping fierce currents along,
breaking the crests of the mountains:
Rise, O rise!
For many lives to come,
fill yourself today—
the cloud has thundered.

Buddha called the state of samadhi “dharma-megha samadhi”—when one attains samadhi, one becomes a cloud. Dharma-megha samadhi! The water of dharma begins to pour from him, as rain falls from the cloud.

Rise, O rise!
For many lives to come,
fill yourself today—
the cloud has thundered.

Do not let this time slip by. The call has arisen; do not suppress it. The attraction toward sannyas has arisen; do not miss it.

Because if you wish to do the auspicious, do not delay. And if you wish to do the inauspicious, do not hurry. If anger arises, say, “Tomorrow.” If love arises, do it now—who knows of tomorrow! If you must make enmity, put it off—tomorrow, the day after, keep postponing. But if you are to make friendship, do not delay even a moment. Right now, here. Only then will friendship happen. If you think “again, sometime,” then never.

I too am eager to meet you. When the cloud pours upon the earth, do not think it is only the earth that is thirsty—the cloud is eager too. It is not only the earth that rejoices when drops moisten her parched throat; the cloud is also delighted.

Who is not longing to meet!
The soil spread to the horizon
asks ceaselessly:
When will it be erased, when cut away—
tell me—the curse of your consciousness?
And when you dissolve in me,
then it will be at peace.

Who is not longing to meet!
The sky’s unbounded flowing wind
asks every moment:
When will the wall of your body
break and fall,
and when you merge in me,
then you will be free?

Who is not longing to meet!
The all-pervading personality of the universe
asks at each instant:
When will it be erased—speak—
the pride of your ego,
and when you dissolve in me,
then you will be whole?

Who is not longing to meet!
The Divine too is eager to meet. It is not only you who are seeking him; he is seeking you as well. It is not only you who are running toward him; he is running toward you. If the fire were lit only on one side, there would be no joy in it. The fire is lit on both sides—that is why there is such sweetness, such juice.

I have invited you to sannyas because what I have I want to share. If you take it, I am grateful to you! If you take it, my thanks to you. Whenever the feeling to take the leap arises, do not hesitate—because sometimes moments of courage come. In that courageous moment, if the happening can happen, let it happen; otherwise you postpone and think, “I will do it tomorrow…” What certainty is there of tomorrow!

Buddha passed through one village thirty times in forty years of wandering. And there was a man who kept thinking, “I must go.” But sometimes guests arrived at his house, sometimes his wife fell ill—and wives, who can rely on when they will fall ill? At the very crucial moment! Sometimes there were too many customers at the shop; sometimes he had a headache. Sometimes he was just closing the shop to go when an old friend turned up after years. Obstacles kept coming, kept coming. He thought, “Next time he comes…” Thus Buddha came thirty times, and thirty times the man missed.

Do not be shocked, do not think thirty is a lot. You too have missed at least three thousand times. For how many lives you have been here, and how many Buddhas must you have failed to meet! On the paths of life you must have passed near Buddhas many times; but you said, “Tomorrow! I will meet later—what is the hurry? There are other important things first.”

We put the Divine at the end of the list; when there is nothing else to do, then we will remember the Divine.

Then one day the news came to the village that Buddha had announced he would leave his body that very day. The man panicked. Now he did not worry whether his wife was ill, whether his child’s wedding was pending, whether there were customers in the shop—he ran. He did not even close the shop and ran. People said, “Have you gone mad? Where are you going?” He said, “Enough now!” He ran and reached—but he was late. An hour earlier Buddha had asked the bhikkhus: “Is there anything to ask? Otherwise I shall dissolve now; my time has come. My boat has reached the shore; now I go.”

The monks said, “You have said so much without our asking, you have given so much without our begging—now there is nothing to ask. What you have given, how can we even understand it yet? What you have said, how can we even ponder it yet? Birth after birth it will take for us to draw out its essence.”

The monks began to weep. Buddha went and sat behind a tree. He established witnessing of the body and became separate from the body. He was establishing witnessing of the mind, becoming separate from the mind—when that man arrived running. He cried, “Where is he? Where is Buddha? I can miss no more. There is no tomorrow now, for he is going.”

The monks said, “Now be silent. You have missed. We have already taken leave of him. He is now, slowly, leaving the layers of life and setting out on the journey into the infinite. His boat is about to push off from the shore. No—now it is too late.”

But they say that as soon as Buddha heard this… He was just loosening the last mooring from the mind. Had he already slipped free of the mind, he could not have heard. From the last point of mind, as he was untying the boat’s rope, he heard—and returned. He rose and said, “Do not stop him; a stain would remain upon my name that while I was alive someone came to my door with his begging bowl and went away empty-handed. No—do not do this. Let him ask what he needs to ask. He erred for thirty years—should I err for that? And whenever he has come, that is the right time. Even in thirty years, who comes! There are many who do not come even in thirty births.”

When such a feeling arises, be courageous.

Smeared with the world’s mud and marsh,
snagged and shaken in time’s thorny thickets,
the mind a torn wick,
your ragged, grimy sheet
soaked with life’s toil, heat, and sweat—
now drop your attachment to it.
After roaming bogs and jungles, mountains and deserts,
with a slack and stumbling body,
take off this tattered garment.
In star-dusted sands and blossoms,
in the ever-flowing pure celestial Ganges,
bathe away filth and mire,
make yourself new and pristine,
soothe the burn and the fatigue,
and on your body
adorn a rainbow garment
dyed with tenderness and compassion.
On the surface, existence swells,
a radiant array of rays,
pearls released in showers,
the babbling song,
limbs surging with hundreds upon hundreds of waves
vying to touch the shore first—
now abandon all that.
Now the wave, head bowed,
inner sky darkened,
limbs hushed,
utterly alone, destitute,
defeated in every way,
stretch out your empty hands,
with your silent eyes
look at the shore one last time;
be helplessly one with the vast beyond—
forget the wave,
call upon the Lord!

When the moment comes, when the mind is willing—do not miss that moment.

Buddha used to say: In a royal palace a blind man was confined. There were many doors in that palace, but all were closed; only one door the king had left open. The blind man tried to get out, groping and groping—but every door was closed. When he came near the open door, his head began to itch and he stopped to scratch it, and he passed the door. After months of labor he again came to that door—such a vast palace—and a fly landed on his mouth; he began to drive it away, and in the meantime he passed the door. There was only one open door, while there were a thousand doors in the palace; and whenever he came to the open door, some incidental cause arose.

There are millions of moments in life; in some one moment you come close to sannyas. At that time, do not start swatting the fly. At that time, do not start scratching your head. That door may or may not come again.

Now the wave, head bowed,
inner sky darkened,
limbs hushed,
utterly alone, destitute,
defeated in every way,
stretch out your empty hands,
with your silent eyes
look at the shore one last time;
be helplessly one with the vast beyond—
forget the wave,
call upon the Lord!

Auspicious signs. Somewhere, a harmony is being struck. Somewhere your current is getting ready to flow with mine. You are consenting to open your wings and fly. Hence new, fresh experiences will burgeon. Don’t be afraid, because the new is what frightens most. The old we are familiar with; the familiar doesn’t frighten. Even if the familiar brings suffering, it doesn’t scare us. That’s why people remain so miserable and still don’t change their misery. One becomes acquainted with misery; a relationship forms. If suddenly happiness were to arrive at your door, believe me—surely—you would shut the door. You would say: First, there is no such thing as happiness in this world. Second, it must be a fraud. And third, we’ve only just managed to make peace with our misery—don’t uproot us now. Somehow we have settled in; somehow a relationship has formed. Why take on this new hassle! Who wants to begin all over again!

People get accustomed even to living in prison; then the outside no longer appeals to them.

I was in Madhya Pradesh for some years, and I would visit the central jail there. The governor was a friend of mine; he said, “How long will you go on advising the prisoners outside? Come speak to those inside as well.” I said, Fine, I’ll come.

The first time I went, I met certain men; when I returned months later—the same men, the same faces. Years went by. Someone would be released, then within a month or two he would be back. I asked an old prisoner, “How many times have you been here?” He said, “This is my thirteenth… thirteenth time.”

“So what’s the difficulty in staying outside?”

He said, “Outside doesn’t feel good. All my friends, my own people, are here. Outside there’s a sense of strangeness. Whom to speak to? With whom to talk? And then, outside there are a thousand hassles. Earn your bread, find a house, arrange to live. Here everything is provided. No worry for bread, no standing in ration lines, no queuing at four in the morning to fill water. Everything is convenient here. This is a palace worth lakhs,” he said. “When needed, a doctor comes. To bear these few chains is not an expensive bargain for so many facilities. At first it felt bad, but now I have friendships with everyone. Even the policemen know me, they are my own; the jailer too. This is home. Where should I go now? When they release me, within a month or two I arrange to come back in.”

Even a prison becomes home if you stay too long. And the prison you are in—you have been in it for many lifetimes. So if ever the songs of birds outside—who are free—call you, if their voice beckons you, have the courage to break these chains.

And the real fun is this: in this prison no one else is guarding your chains; you are guarding them yourself. No one else is stopping you, no sentinel stands over your head; you are the one stopping you. Here, the cause of your misery is you. If ever you catch the hint of birds flying in the sky, I tell you: the doors of your cage are open—no one has shut them.

Sannyas means only this much: that you are ready to experiment with the new. Sannyas means only this much: that you have the courage to break your relationship with the old misery. Sannyas means only this much: that you agree to give life a new style, a new garment; that you are ready to experiment.

Sannyas is courage.

And the waves of new feelings that are surging within you—don’t let them be lost. Waves arise; if you do not accept them in your life, they are lost. Waves rise; if you do not transform your life in their company, waves do not rise forever. They will come and be lost. Slowly you will even become accustomed to those waves. If you go on listening again and again to the voice of a liberated one, just listening, and do nothing, slowly you will get used to listening. Then it will not hurt; then there will be no stirring within you, no tears will flow from your eyes.

The friend who has asked—this is a new, fresh contact. New experiences are rising in it. Before these experiences lose their meaning, before these waves become inert, before you slowly accept even these waves and they, too, grow old—take the leap.

“Sometimes I cry; sometimes I just keep gazing at you.”

Tears are a sign that the connection is being made through the heart. If it were made through the intellect, tears would never come. If the connection is through the head, at most one nods: “Right”; or if not, one shakes the head: “Wrong.” Only the skull nods a little. Tears have nothing to do with the head. Tears flow from the eyes—but they come from the heart, from the innermost core. Tears are more meaningful—than doctrines, ideas, sects. Tears are more meaningful. Tears bring the news that the heart has been struck, something within has trembled. Before the tears dry, before your eyes dry—do something. Take tears as a good omen, and follow their indication. If you can follow the hint of tears, if you embrace them, understand their pointing, their language, and do something—very soon you will find a unique laughter, hidden behind the tears, spreading over your whole life.

For me, sannyas is not something sad. Sannyas is a laughing, blossoming, bliss-intoxicated, new expanse of life, a new unfoldment. You are closed, blunted, small, confined in the prisons—of the body, of the mind! Sannyas is the news that the whole sky is yours, everything is yours! Enjoy! Awaken! This nectar showering in existence—it is yours, it is showering for you. These moon and stars move for you. These flowers blossom for you! Partake of them! Drown in this nectar.

If you take the path of love, then enjoy. If you take the path of knowledge, then awaken. Both are right, both take you there. And among my sannyasins there are both kinds.

In truth, my sannyas is not a sect. People have come from all the religions of the world. Such a thing has never happened on earth. You won’t find a place where Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Jains, Sikhs, Parsis meet; where all have immersed the stream of their lives into one Ganga; where there is no distinction—such universality! And here no one is talking about universality, no one is indulging in the babble of “synthesis of all religions.” No one is telling you to chant, “Allah and Ishwar are Your names, Allah and Ishwar are Your names!” No one is saying that. Why even raise such a point? The very day you say “Allah and Ishwar are Your names,” that day you have already accepted that the two names are opposed, and you are setting up a politics of reconciliation. You have admitted they are different. Here no one is explaining that Allah and Ishwar are Your names.

Here, unknowingly, spontaneously, this event is happening. Whether you call Allah, whether you call Ishwar—you are calling the same One. And there is no contrivance in it.

People are astonished when they come for the first time. They are amazed to see even Muslims in ochre robes! “Have you seen Krishna Muhammad? Have you seen Radha Muhammad?” A gentleman came and asked me, “Is Radha a Hindu or a Muslim?”

I said, “What does it matter? Radha is Radha—what have Hindu or Muslim to do with it?”

“No,” he said, “by the name she seems Hindu, but I saw her with Krishna Muhammad.”

Well, she is the wife of Krishna Muhammad. Krishna has become Muhammad! Distances are falling—without anyone’s effort to bring them down, without arranging any coordination. When it happens by itself its value is great, its beauty unique; there is a grace in it.

Such sannyas has never happened before on earth. You are passing through a unique good fortune. If you understand, you won’t miss. If you don’t, you will regret later. You are near a unique source from which great streams will flow—you are near Gangotri. Later you will repent. Later the Ganga will become very big—reaching the ocean she will be ocean-like. But now the water is falling at Gomukh, now it is at Gangotri. Those who drink this water now—such a chance will not come again. Yes, in Kashi there is Ganga too, but then she has become very dirty. Who knows how many drains have flowed into her. The joy at Gangotri, the cleanliness—never again.

So the sooner you take sannyas the more auspicious it is. This Ganga of sannyas will grow—it will encircle the whole earth. These ochre robes will not stop anywhere—they will encircle the entire planet. Later you will come—somewhere in Prayag, in Kashi—your choice. But I tell you, come now to Gangotri.

When I was a university student, the Vice Chancellor once said on Buddha Jayanti, “I often think how blessed I would have been had I lived in Buddha’s time, sat at his feet! Blessed were those who sat with him, who breathed with him, who looked into his eyes, who walked at his feet, who sat in his shade. Blessed were they. If only I had been in his time!”

I was a student, but as is my habit, I stood up in the middle. I said, “Take your words back.” He said, “Why?”

I said, “This is your rhetoric. I tell you—you were there then too, and you did not go to Buddha.”

He was a bit flustered. A little uneasy—what is happening here?

I said, “I say with certainty you were there then too. You must have been somewhere! Do you believe in rebirth?”

He was a Hindu Brahmin—he said, “I do.”

I said, “Then you were somewhere! Were you an animal or a man—what do you say?”

He wasn’t ready to call himself an animal, so he said, “I must have been a man.”

“Then you did not go to Buddha—because at the source the Ganga is not visible! The Ganga is seen when she becomes very big, but then you are far from the source. Today the great ‘name’ of Buddha appears to you because there are millions of statues, millions of followers—you are impressed by the big name, not by Buddha. Tell me—have you, in this life, ever gone to any saint?”

I knew him. Saints were far from him; he wouldn’t let even a saint’s shadow fall on him. A meat-eater, a drinker, consorting with prostitutes—I knew him well. I said, “Speak truthfully. I have seen you elsewhere—in clubhouses, drinking. And I suspect you are drunk even now. Otherwise you wouldn’t say such a thing—you must be speaking in intoxication when you say, ‘If only I had lived in Buddha’s time!’ Because I have never seen in you any leaning toward religion; you are a dyed-in-the-wool politician! These days no one can be a vice chancellor without being a politician. Even the most asinine politicians are sitting as vice chancellors.”

So I said to him, “Take those words back. Would you recognize Buddha?”

He found no way out. He said, “I see your point—perhaps I wouldn’t have gone even if Buddha were there. Perhaps it’s true that his name is so great now…”

Later he called me and said, “If you have anything to say, come and say it in private. Why did you stand up in the crowd?”

I said, “You too—think before you give public addresses while I am in this university; otherwise I will have to speak there.”

Right now you are near the source. This source will become a Ganga. At Gangotri you may not even recognize. Later you will repent.

So if a ray of such good fortune has arisen in you—that a feeling arises to dive in, to be lost in ecstasy—then don’t wait! However many fears there may be, push the bank aside and step in. And fears dissolve only when you brush them aside and move forward; otherwise they never dissolve.

You are the seed, you the field as well,
You the rains, you the harvest as well.
You the path, you the traveler as well,
You the guide, you the destination as well.
You the boatman, you the ferry,
You the boat, you the shore as well.
You the wine, you the goblet,
You the cupbearer, you the gathering as well.

Here I am not teaching you anything else. Sannyas means reminding you of you. And you are everything.

You the wine, you the goblet,
You the cupbearer, you the gathering as well.

I have only to give you what is already yours. I want to give you what you already carry within you, which you have forgotten, which has slipped from your memory. I have to restore your remembrance to you. Sannyas is an orderly process toward that remembrance.

On this wheel, circling and circling,
my body-mind, my life is worn out.
O potter, spare my clay now,
harry me no more,
fashion me no more!

Sannyas is the declaration: O Lord! Enough circling on this wheel.

On this wheel, circling and circling,
my body-mind, my life is worn out.
O potter, spare my clay now,
harry me no more,
fashion me no more.

If you want to wake from this dark night—then sannyas! If you want to come out of this hell of sorrow—then sannyas. If you want to bring the morning near—then sannyas. If you want to fill life with the fragrance of the Divine—then sannyas.

Sannyas means: you have shown your readiness to become a temple, and now, if it be the Beloved’s whim, let him come and sit in your heart.

Hari Om Tatsat!