Maha Geeta #42

Trust means the fall of the mind. Without the mind falling, you cannot become a witness. Trust means the dropping of doubt. When doubt drops, there is no way for thought to go on. Thought runs only so long as doubt is there. Doubt is the life-breath of the process of thinking.

People try to remove thought, but not doubt. They are like someone who, with one hand, keeps watering a tree and, with the other, goes on plucking off its branches and leaves. They are engaged in a self-contradictory act.

Where there is doubt, there is thought. Doubt stirs up thought. Doubt raises ripples in the inner world. That is why science takes doubt as its foundation—because without thinking, how will inquiry happen? The foundation of science is doubt. Doubt as much as you can, so that intense inquiry is born; and from that inquiry, research happens.

Religion says: trust. Trust means—no doubt. When doubt goes, thoughts begin to settle on their own. Without doubt, there is nothing left to think about. If no question remains, how can thought remain?

Those who think they will quiet the mind but are not ready to trust will never succeed. They want to save the roots and pluck the leaves. But the roots will send new leaves. That is the very work of roots—to give birth to new leaves. Roots are the womb from which new leaves go on arriving.

Trust means: I have no question. And when there is no question, no waves of thought arise. As if you are sitting by a lake: you pick up a stone and throw it into the still water. You throw just one stone, but infinite ripples arise; wave upon wave goes on spreading. A single doubt becomes the progenitor of endless thoughts. The question arises, and the journey begins.

Trust means: drop the question, do not raise questions. What is, is; what is not, is not—be contented with this. In this contentment the witness is born. In this supreme acceptance the flavor of witnessing arises. On the horizon of trust the sun of witnessing rises; the morning of the witness happens. Without trust, the witness cannot be born.

Understand it this way: with doubt—you become a thinker; with witnessing—you become a seer. With doubt—you become logic-bound. With trust—you go beyond logic. Thought is useful if you have to inquire into the other. You will have to go, to travel, to ride the waves. The other is distant; bridges must be built between you and the other—so the bridges of thought have to be thrown across. But to come to oneself, no bridge is needed. To come to oneself, no path is needed. There, you already are.

Witnessing simply means: the effort to know that which we are. And in the effort to know that, no waves of thought are of any use. But remember: when I explained trust to you, I said again and again that trust is not belief. Belief is just doubt again.

A man says, “I believe in God.” If you investigate within, you will find he doubts God—otherwise, what need is there of belief? Belief is the name of suppressing doubt, of hiding it. Belief is like clothing. You are naked; you cover yourself with clothes, and it starts appearing as if you are no longer naked. Under the clothes you remain naked. Wearing clothes does not remove nakedness; it only prevents others from seeing it. Such are the garments of belief. Belief does not remove doubt. Nor does it remove argument. Nor does it remove thought.

That is why you will find the irreligious, the atheist, thinking—and the religious also thinking. One thinks against God; one thinks in favor of God; but neither is free of thinking. One gathers proofs that God does not exist; the other gathers proofs that God does exist. Does God need proofs? That which needs proof is not God. And that which depends on human proofs is not God. If its being or non-being depends on me, it becomes worthless. God is. Whether you gather evidence for or against makes no difference. It makes no difference to God’s being. God means existence—this very fact of being; this presence of consciousness, within and without—this is God. It needs no proof.

Trust is not belief. Belief gathers proofs; trust is the opening of the eyes and seeing. Trust is vision. Hence, in the Jain understanding, darshan and shraddha carry the same meaning. Mahavira called vision shraddhan, and called shraddha vision. Trust is simply opening the eyes and seeing.

Think of a blind man. He gropes his way, asks his way, walks with a stick in his hand. Then his eyes are healed. Now he throws the stick away. That stick was like belief. With its help he could grope along. Now that there are eyes, the stick is no longer needed.

One who attains to trust throws belief away. He is no longer Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. Now he has eyes. Now no proof is needed; the eyes are proof enough. You don’t go around proving the sun. No one refutes it, no one defends it. No one says, “I believe in the sun,” and no one says, “I don’t believe in the sun.” The sun is—what is there to believe or not believe? When the eyes are open, the sun is seen.

In just the same way, when the inner eye opens, its name is trust. Trust is the inner eye. What is seen through that inner eye is the divine. So trust is not belief. Trust is an inner revolution: freedom from thought, freedom from questions, freedom from doubt—to be in accord with what is, to be in rhythm with it. And only in this state does the awareness of the witness happen.

If you want to be a doer, thought is needed. If you want to be a thinker, thought is needed, because thinking is a subtle doing. In witnessing there is no doer to become, nothing to do. What is, is only to be vibrated with. Not separate from it, but one with it in inseparable harmony. In witnessing there is nothing to do—only to be awake, to see.

Certainly. Shraddha is the door; the witness—the image enthroned in the temple. Without shraddha no one has ever reached the witness, nor reached truth. Without shraddha you can be a pundit, not a knower. Without shraddha you can be a believer, not one who has experienced.

So there are two kinds of wanderers in the world. One we call atheists; the other we call theists. Both wander. Both are filled with belief—one for, one against. Neither the atheist knows that God is, nor the theist knows that God is.

That is why I place the religious apart from both; he is neither atheist nor theist. He has slowly attempted to see. Your notions are not needed at all for seeing. Your notions become obstacles; your prejudices bring hindrances. You set out having assumed something in advance; because of that, seeing does not remain pure.

If you have already assumed, you will see just what you have assumed. Without assuming, without relying, without believing, without getting intoxicated by any notion, the one who remains empty, still, silent—simply seeing… What is, is to be known. As yet we do not know it; then how can we believe?

People come to me and say: How are we to believe in God? I tell them: I am not telling you to believe. Do you at least concede that you are? That needs no believing.
They say: We know that we are.
Have you ever seen a man who believes, “I am not”? How could you find such a person? For even to believe “I am not,” my being is necessary.

Mulla Nasruddin was hiding in his house. Someone knocked at the door. He peeped through the chink and saw the very shopkeeper to whom he owed money. He shouted loudly from inside, “I’m not at home!” The shopkeeper laughed. He said, “That’s the limit! Then who is saying, ‘I’m not at home’?” Mulla said, “I am saying I’m not at home—do you hear or not?”

But that is proof of being at home. “I’m not at home” cannot be said. Who will say it? No one in the world has ever said, “I am not.” Why? Because the ‘I’ is directly experienced; how to deny it, how to falsify it! Even if the whole world told you that you are not, no doubt would arise. You would say: Who knows, the world may say so! But within I feel the touch, the experience, the clear intimation that I am. And if I am not, then whom are you trying to convince? At least to do the convincing you concede this much—that I am.

This inner sense of ‘I’ is still hazy. When it deepens and becomes manifest, this very sense of ‘I’ becomes God-consciousness. To deepen this hazy, smoke-veiled sense, it is necessary to enter shraddha.

Let me repeat the meaning of shraddha—not belief; to see what is, with brimming eyes, with open eyes. You are! God is present within you just as you are present. Where do you wander? What do you search for? There is nowhere to search, nowhere to go. Only this: with brimming eyes, to see that which is already present within. The moment you see, the doors of the temple open. The witness comes into experience—through the mood of shraddha.

Witnessing means: the art of giving the mind away; the art of erasing the mind.

Buds in the honeyed grove smile, exuding fragrance;
as if some enchantment were settling over me.
All I can teach is only this—
how the mind is to be lavished away!

Have you noticed—outside too, beauty is perceived only when, for a little while, the mind is at rest! The full moon has risen in the sky, the autumn full moon night, and you looked—and for a moment, under the impact of that beauty, in the influence of that beauty, in the waves of that beauty, you became still! For a moment, the mind was not. In that very moment an unprecedented sense of beauty, a jubilance of bliss, is born. You saw a flower, you heard music, or you sat with a friend, hand in hand—wherever you have had even a slight glimpse of happiness, know it for certain: that glimpse comes because wherever the mind halts for even an instant, in that very instant the mood of witnessing descends. It is so momentary that you cannot catch it—it comes and goes.

In meditation we try to grasp that same thing more deeply. That which beauty gives, that which love gives, that which truth grants in small intimations, from where a few little windows open toward the infinite—in meditation we try to catch it more and more deeply.

And this is the greatest act in this world. Mind you, I say act. In truth it is not an act, because there is no doer in it. But language has to be used. It is the greatest act in the world which happens absolutely not by doing—but by being.

Granted, anyone may plant a garden,
but in whose grove does that flower bloom—
—whose colors recall the three worlds,
and whose fragrance even the gods long to obtain?

That is the flower of witnessing. Everyone lays out gardens—some of wealth, some of position. Everyone lays out gardens. But in whose garden does that flower bloom for which even the gods are tempted? It blooms when you bloom. It is your own flower—your thousand-petaled lotus, your sahasrar; the hidden potential within you when it fully blossoms. It blossoms in witnessing, because no obstacle remains.

As long as you are the doer, your energy remains deployed outward. If you are a thinker, the energy remains deployed in the mind. If you are a doer, it keeps flowing through the body; if a thinker, it keeps flowing through the mind. Thus you keep dripping away drop by drop. You are never able to be gathered as energy. Your bucket has holes—everything leaks out.

The sole meaning of witnessing is that neither the doer remains, nor the thinker remains; for a little while both—doer and thought—are set aside. If the doer is not, you are separate from the body; if the thinker is not, you are separate from the mind. The moment you are apart from this body and mind, your life-energy begins to be conserved. A profound depth arrives. What is known in that depth, the knower calls “the witness”; the devotee calls “God.” That is only a difference of words.

The question is important. I am speaking precisely while looking at you. But if I do not speak of what lies beyond you, there is no point in speaking at all. If I say only as much as you can already understand, it is futile—you already understand that. It is by looking at you that I speak, and that is why I speak of the sky. Only if I speak of the sky will you perhaps raise your eyes to it. The sky is yours. You are its master. And yet you walk with your eyes glued to the ground. Because they are fixed on the ground, you bump here and there, you fall here and there. The ground is yours—true; the sky too is yours. I must speak of the sky so your gaze does not get bound to the earth and end there. It is by looking at you that I speak of the sky.

Of course, much will pass over your head. Only when something passes over your head is there any possibility. If you fully understand whatever I say, then it has been wasted. You already understood that much; I have not added anything, not increased anything in you. And if you understand nothing at all, then my speaking is also wasted. If nothing registers, it is as if I spoke or didn’t—equal. If everything registers, it was needless—then there was no need to speak, for that much you already had.

So I must speak in such a way that some of it reaches your understanding and some of it does not. On the strength of what you do understand, try to move toward what you do not. Then there will be growth; otherwise not.

You would prefer that I speak only what you already understand. Then how will you move ahead? I have to nudge you forward, inch by inch. I am careful, too, not to forget you entirely—not to go so far ahead that no connection remains with you. The connection must hold and yet the words must go beyond you—this is how I have to speak.

This is precisely the meaning of the satguru: he addresses you, but does not speak for you; he addresses you and speaks of the divine. Therefore there is bound to be a little trouble with a satguru. He is not there to entertain you—what entertainment? He is there to break the mind, not to amuse it. You have had enough entertainment. Through entertainment you have squandered who knows how many lives; through entertainment you have wandered in dreams. Now the dream must be broken—yet not with such a jolt that you become an enemy. It must be broken gently, slowly.

You have to be awakened. And to awaken you, I must keep both in view—your present state and the supreme realm to which you have to be raised.

When I speak to you, I speak to you and I also speak beyond you. When I see the talk is going too far beyond, I invite Mulla Nasruddin. He pulls you back into your world. You laugh a little, you relax a little. As soon as I see you have laughed and feel reassured, I begin to shake you again. Then I start lifting you upward.

I know that what is truly beneficial for you is not interesting to you, and what is interesting to you is not beneficial. You have become addicted to poison. You have learned to live with the wrong; it has become your lifestyle. To move you away from it requires great skill. And the crucial part of that skill is this: not to speak in such a way that you run away, and not to speak in such a way that you fully understand. You must be jolted; you must be led toward the sky.

And I am not anti-earth—remember that. The earth too is part of the sky; it is one limb of the sky. So I am not against the earth. I do not wish to uproot you from it. I wish your roots to go deeper into the earth—only then will your tree converse with the clouds, rise high, move toward the sky.

That is why I do not consider sannyas to be opposed to the world. Live in the marketplace. Stay where you are, as you are, in whatever earth has become yours. Only remember this much: the sole purpose of spreading roots in the earth is that wings may spread in the sky. Draw sap from the earth to fly in the sky. Take the earth’s support; with that support stand firm and unmoving. But your head must rise into the sky. Until the clouds begin to swirl near your head, know that life has gone to waste—you have not been fulfilled.

I understand your hurdle, your difficulty. But I must slowly coax you into this new taste. What now flows over your head, one day you will find it flowing through your heart.

When a small child goes to school, we do not talk to him of the university. With a first-grade student we speak only first-grade language. But as the time to move to second grade approaches, we begin to speak a little of second grade too. He doesn’t fully understand it—he does and he doesn’t; it comes dimly. But we must speak of it. Now the time has come. Those who do not pick up even a little taste for the next grade will have to repeat the first again. Those who feel even a little taste for going on will enter the second! And so, slowly, there is third grade, and more and more grades.

What does it mean that things go over your head? It only means that you have not yet tried to raise your head to that height. Two options lie before me: either I bring my talk down to where it disappears through your heart...

Films and plays pass through your heart; Ashtavakra does not. Even the most foolish man is rapt in a film. For three hours he forgets everything; it all enters him. You see—even the film does not take you upward!

Vijayanand comes to me. I said to him: pull it a little higher. He said: if we pull it higher, it no longer works. People want the lowest of the low. Still, I urged him to have some courage. He did—and his enterprise began to totter. He made two or three films to take things a little higher, but they did not run. No one came to see them. You want to see only what you already are. You want only your own reflection.

Mulla Nasruddin went to see a film. There comes a scene: a woman is undressing on the edge of a pond. Mulla watches with great interest. He straightens his spine, sits utterly attentive—like a Buddha nearing the divine: the spine straight, the breath stilled, the eyes unblinking. He is absolutely still. Not only he—the whole cinema hall becomes so. Everyone sits firmly in their seats; for a moment they all become hatha yogis. She is about to remove the final garment—just one remains—when a train thunders by. The screen shifts to the train, the woman and pond vanish. Everyone sinks back into their seats, sad and tired. But Mulla refuses to leave. It was the first show; he sits through the second. He sits through the third. Finally the manager comes and says: What do you intend—have you decided to live here? Mulla says: Some time or other the train will be late. I’m not going! These are Indian trains; who can trust them! If they’re even half an hour late—just a moment’s delay!

The naked woman... By the time the train is gone, the woman is swimming in the pond. Only her head is visible, nothing else.

A film passes through your heart; a film song passes through your heart. If a religious talk also ever passes through your heart, that happens only when it has been dragged down to the lower level.

That is why people read the Ramayana, not Ashtavakra’s Gita. The Ramayana is an old-style film story—the same triangle that is in every movie: two lovers and one beloved.

Just grasp the arithmetic of the Ramayana—exactly the same as every film. Two lovers are fighting for one beloved. The whole drama is a triangle. The style is a bit old—it was written long ago—but the matter is the same.

People have watched the tale of Rama, Ravana, and Sita for centuries. Ramlila runs in every village. Who reads Ashtavakra’s Gita! Even Krishna’s Gita seems to have some juice because there is war, violence, sensation—sensational! The whole Mahabharata scene is sensational.

You’ve seen—when war breaks out you get up at brahmamuhurta and start asking, Where is the newspaper? What happened? What’s going on between India and Pakistan? Between Egypt and Israel? Let a fight start and there is a sparkle in people’s eyes. Let someone drive a knife into someone’s chest and you stop, absorbed. You were cycling to get medicine for your mother; you see two men fighting. You forget mother and everything else, park the cycle and stand to watch. Great delight!

Where there is war, violence, lust—that’s where your taste lies. But from this there is no awakening! This will not raise you. This is how you have become worms of the earth, crawling on the ground. Your spine is broken.

So if I am to speak to you, there are two ways. Either I bring everything down to the plane you can grasp—but then I have no juice in speaking, because what is the point? The films are already telling you that; playwrights are telling you that; the Ramlilas are telling you that. Anyone can tell you that. For that you don’t need to come here—the whole world is calling you to hear it. The other way is to persuade you that your head is not as low as you have assumed. Stand straight; stop stooping. What now passes over your head—raise your head a little and it will begin to pass through the head. And once it starts passing through the head, rise a little higher, and higher. Is there any end to your height? God is hidden within you. The ultimate height is your birthright—your destiny, your fortune. You can become as high as height can be—Gaurishankar behind you, Himalayas left small! When the heads of Buddhas have touched the ultimate height of the sky, all Himalayas became small; even the Himalayas’ coolness turned ordinary. You carry the possibility of being that high. It may not be visible now—I agree. You may not understand it—no matter how much I say, it does not quite register.

Say to a seed, Don’t be afraid. You are not small; you will become a great tree; under you a thousand bullock carts will rest—you will be a banyan. Don’t be afraid! Thousands of birds will rest in you. Tired travelers will sit in your shade, be relieved, and thank you. The seed will wriggle and say: Enough—what kind of talk is this? Look at me: so tiny, like a pebble—what is going to happen?

You are a seed right now. You do not know your height. You can become a banyan. All my effort is to get you to become that banyan. Of course, I do not speak so far away that you cannot hear at all. I bring it close enough that it reaches you—but not so low that you understand it completely. So I let it pass over your head—close enough that your mind feels, If I just leap, I could grab it. It doesn’t seem too far—stretch out a hand and it could be yours.

Look—when a man stretches out his hand he can get everything! He stretched his hand to the moon, and the moon was reached. Dreams come true. For what I am saying, no instruments are needed; no great technology is needed. For what Ashtavakra is saying, you are born with the complete instrument. Just lift the eyes a little.

When Mansur was crucified—when he was hung on the cross—he began to laugh. Someone in the crowd asked: Mansur, we don’t understand—why are you laughing? Is this a time to laugh? People are throwing stones, shoes, rotten tomatoes; they are hurling abuse. Your hands and feet are being cut off; you are near death; soon your head will be severed. And you laugh?

He said: I laugh because I have said to the Lord: O Lord, these poor people—about a hundred thousand have gathered—have never looked toward the sky. At least because of me, to watch me on the cross, they are looking up! At least because of me they have looked upward a little!

Even if, when you saw Jesus on the cross, you looked up a little, you will find that you can look up. There is no paralysis in your neck—just a bad habit.

So do not worry about what you understand. Take a challenge from what you do not. Try to understand it—it will come! It must come! Because if it could come to Ashtavakra, why not to you? His eight limbs were crooked, yet it came into his intelligence. Your eight limbs are not crooked. Even if you are bent on all sides, his eight limbs were crooked—he saw the sky; you stand straight and healthy—will you not see it? Janaka understood in the midst of all music and color, all splendor and turmoil, in the marketplace—will you not understand? Great grace has been upon you: you have not been given as much music and marketplace as Janaka had. If Janaka could understand, you can as well.

What happened to one man can happen to all. The capacity of one man is the capacity of all men. All humans come with the same nature; with the same possibility.

So if I speak a little above you, don’t be annoyed. I do keep in mind that it should not go too far; it should not fall completely outside your comprehension. It should keep tinging your understanding—like a distant sound still audible. The call should keep coming. Then, slowly, you will be tied to this slender cord. Granted, the thread is thin—but if you are tied to it, you will be pulled.

Where you are right now, I want you to realize you are in a prison.

Like a palace guest
who cannot forget the grass hut
in which his natural nights and days
of childhood were spent,
with the memory of home I, locked
among blazing gauds, crackle inside.
Amid a hundred comforts for the body
my mind feels exiled.

Radiant billows from afar
come to bathe the rocks;
the shore and water repeat
their sweet story in foam again and again;
and the water’s sigh transforms
and goes roaming, cloud to cloud.
I blush to utter it—I am thirsty
in the middle of the sea.
Amid a hundred comforts for the body
my mind feels exiled.

Let at least this much return to you—the remembrance of your nature, your swabhava, your true home! What I keep speaking is praise of your true home. What now seems like a dream—even if it is a dream—may it seize you, may it shake you. May its call become in your very life-breath an invocation to journey—a proclamation, a campaign! Let at least this much be remembered: only from your nature do you attain bliss; that is your true home. And the place where you have settled is a foreign land. You have mistaken a wayside inn for your home. I am not even asking you to leave the inn. I say only: know that it is an inn. Know that much, and the entire transformation will begin.

Certainly there will be difficulty. Whenever one tries to change his life, there are hurdles. This cannot happen only with conveniences. The path is not all flowers; there are thorns as well. And often you do not understand not because your understanding is insufficient, but because you do not want to understand. You fear that if you understand, you will have to walk.

I was once in a village. My host was deeply interested in me. But I was surprised that his wife never came and sat. When I arrived at the door she welcomed me with a garland and performed arati with a lamp. But then she disappeared. I stayed three days. She came to no meeting, no gathering. Many people came and went at the house, but no sign of the wife. While leaving she came again with a garland. Then it struck me. I asked: I saw you on arrival and now on departure; where were you in between? She said: What can I say—I am afraid. If I listen to you, then I will have to do. I am afraid. My children are small. I am anxious. I even tell my husband: You too shouldn’t listen. Not that what you say is wrong—it’s probably right. There is attraction in it, a call—so it must be right. Still I tell him, Don’t listen. But he doesn’t obey.

I said: Don’t worry about him. He has been listening to me for years and nothing has happened. He is a slippery pot—your danger is greater. Slippery pot! He is used to listening; or he is kept upside down; the rain keeps falling and he remains empty.

I said: There is a reason. He listens to me, but not with religious inquiry. He is a man of letters. And what I say has literary flavor for him.

Now this is entirely different. It is like sweets are kept and the municipal inspector arrives. He has no taste for the sweets. He looks around the sweets to see if any flies or mosquitoes are moving there; whether they are covered properly; whether they can be sold. His interest is different.

If a botanist enters a garden, he doesn’t see the blooms beautifully open; nor the buds ready to scatter fragrance. He sees none of that. He sees only of which genus the plant is; what its name is; its classification.

Different people have different ways of grasping.

A cobbler sits by the road. He doesn’t look at you, not at your face—he looks at your shoes. From shoes he gauges what kind of man you are. If the shoes are in good condition, your economic condition is good. A tailor looks at clothes, not at you! He recognizes by the clothes.

Each person has his own way of seeing.

I said: He listens to me, but his listening has no religious intent. He is not eager for a revolution in life. He likes the listening. He enjoys the style of my saying, not what I am saying. They say your style is sweet. What will you do with style? Will you lick it? Wear it, spread it, eat it—what will you do with style? It may enchant you for a while; then you will be as empty as before. They have no taste for truth, only for its expression. So don’t worry about him; but you be careful.

And that is how it turned out. When I went again, the wife took sannyas. The husband said, It is astonishing—you never listen! She said, I read in secret. When no one is watching, I read. I read fearfully, because these words are right. And when he said last time that the danger is yours, it struck me. The husband is still not a sannyasin; the wife became one—she who had never listened, never come close.

Remember, there is a hurdle. You do not want to listen to many things. That is why you bend your head and let them pass over. If you wished to listen, you would lift your head and let them pass through. If you truly wished to listen, you would stand so high that those words would begin to pass through the heart. And until words pass through the heart, there is no revolution; though when they do, there is great commotion, a kind of disorder.

All right, I did call your name and summon you,
but when did I say, Come set my heart on fire like this?
Lay bare my every pretense in all I undertake,
hurl a hundred questions at every solution of mine, every instant.
Name? The name was only a kind of support.
I was tired, but I was no one’s slave.
But you came and set my house ablaze,
and in the heart you raised a new tumult.
All right, I did call your name and summon you—
but when did I say, Come set my heart on fire like this?

When you truly listen, you will burn. When you listen, a flame will rise. Illumination will come much later; first there will be a burning.

Consider this: light has two aspects—one is to burn and the other is to illumine. First, when light comes into your life, you will burn, because you are completely unfamiliar with it. First it will only give heat—boil you, vaporize you. Later, as you begin to befriend it, it will slowly become illumination. First the ray comes like a live coal; the lamp is formed much later. So you are afraid.

I see many of you listening with bent heads. You let it pass over: Let it go—my time has not come. And everyone has his own excuse to escape. Even when you call the Lord’s name...

Name? The name was only a kind of support.
I was tired, but I was no one’s slave.
But you came and set my house ablaze,
and in the heart you raised a new tumult.

Kabir has said: Whoever is ready to set his house on fire, come with me. If you have the courage to burn the house you have built, then these words will be understood; then you will listen; then you will contemplate; and as soon as you do, the revolution in your life will begin.

These are not mere words; these are formulas of revolution. But I know—the hurdle is on your side. The highest is within your reach of grasp—even if not yet within the span of your present reach. When I say not within reach, it only means you have not yet tried. You have not yet stretched yourself that far. If you had, it would be within reach. Your reach is held low; therefore it is not within reach. But it is within grasp. The moment you decide to take hold, you can.

No truth has ever been uttered in this world, nor can it be, that is not within the grasp of all human beings.

But there is great nervousness. To listen to and understand the words of the Buddhas—this is to stake everything; it is the gambler’s wager.

A man sins because
the feeling of sin fills us all.
Wherever there is an altar of virtue,
I am the smoke of aloeswood,
the flower-festoon swinging from the pavilion;
and he who returns after sinning,
I am his equal partner in that sin.
The benefactor is a garland on every neck;
and whoever has killed, or was killed,
each one is a murderer,
and each one is the victim of the murder.
I am not smaller than the demon,
nor greater than the dwarf-god;
all humans are one human,
with everyone I stand in embrace.
He who sits defeated,
his defeat is mine within;
he who comes in victory,
in his triumph it is my own hurrah.

When a Buddha says, You are a Buddha, it sounds pleasant. But there is a second, unpleasant half to it: when he says you are a Buddha, he is also saying you are the greatest sinner. Because we are all joined; we are connected.

It is said that when Buddha attained enlightenment, Brahma asked him, Have you attained? Buddha said: I? Not I alone—along with me the whole world has attained: the leaves of the trees, the stones of the mountains, the rivers and streams, men and beasts and birds—along with me they are all liberated, because I am connected.

Brahma did not understand. Then there is the last story. That was the first story—just as enlightenment happened. The last one: when Buddha reached the gate of heaven, Brahma came to welcome him; he opened the door and said, Come in. We have been waiting.

Buddha said: How can I enter? As long as even one remains outside, how can I go in? We all are together. Only when the whole world comes in will I enter.

These two stories are not two—they are two sides of a single coin.

So when someone says to you, God is within you, your ego can accept that—it is agreeable. But when someone says the greatest sinner is within you too, then there is discomfort. When we say the One is, you start linking yourself to Rama. But the link with Ravana is there too—if there is one. You are both Ravana and Rama. When it is said that your life is a ladder, you imagine the ladder leans into heaven. But one foot is anchored in hell and one in heaven. Both doors are open.

Man can go down and he can go up. The possibility of going up exists because the possibility of falling exists. And the ladder is impartial, neutral. It will not say, Don’t go down; nor will it say, Don’t go up. The spread is vast. Downward and upward both are abysmal. You are frightened. You say: Stay seated on your own rung, eyes closed—better here. This looks like a long affair. Where to go? Here are wife, children, house—there is even a small bank balance. All is running fine. Why go down?

Below, great darkness looms—and that frightens. Above, great light blinds—and that too frightens. Afraid of both, you grip your own rung tight. So you do not want to listen. If you choose to listen, your head will begin to rise. If you choose to listen...

Therefore I speak in such a way that your mind is somewhat satisfied, so you do not run away. But if I only satisfy your mind, then I am not a satguru—that would be mere entertainment. That same entertainment goes on in the world. People go to hear stories because they are tasty. What kind of thing is that? It is like taking diamonds and selling them in the market to buy some rotten fish—because fish are tasty. Taste has many kinds.

I have heard of a woman returning from the village after selling her fish. The sun was hot; she was tired; she fell and fainted. A crowd gathered. Where she fell was the perfumers’ bazaar: fragrances were sold there. A perfumer ran up and said, Let her smell this attar—she’ll recover. He offered a very precious perfume—hardly available to kings. But for this poor woman he brought it out of pity. She began to thrash about, tossing hands and feet. In the crowd stood a fisherman; he said, Sir, you will kill her—take it away! I am a fisherman; I know what smell she recognizes.

He quickly took his own basket—he too had returned after selling fish; his basket was filthy. He sprinkled a little water in it and held it over the woman’s head and face. She took a deep breath and instantly regained consciousness. She said, Many thanks. Who did this kindness? That man was killing me, putting such a stench under my nose!

Fragrance becomes stench if you are not habituated to it. And stench begins to feel like fragrance if you are.

So I cannot place the divine perfume right under your nose all at once. And even if you want me to sprinkle water on your fish-basket and set it on your head, I cannot do that either. From the smell of fish I must slowly lead you toward the divine fragrance.

I know what you are accustomed to. I have been there too. That is why I know you completely. I have been where you are. Your desires and tastes were once mine. From where I am now, I know where you should be. There is a gap between where you are and where you ought to be. That gap must be traversed—slowly, slowly.

It is great grace of the Divine that your dreams never quite succeed. If they were to succeed, you would be deprived of the Divine forever. It is immense compassion that in this world one never truly succeeds; there is only the illusion of success, what actually comes to hand is failure! Diamonds and jewels glimmer from afar; by the time they reach your hand they become heaps of ash. It is grace that no one finds real success in this world. From this very failure, from this very defeat, the search for the Divine begins. Out of this deep loss, this pain, this restlessness, a person takes steps toward truth.

If dreams were to come true, who would seek the real? Dreams remain dreams; they never become reality. In fact they don’t even remain dreams—they shatter, they scatter, they lie in fragments all around.

It is good that you wanted to be a successful householder and could not be. Who ever becomes one? Have you ever seen a successful householder? If there were such a thing, Buddha would not have left home. Mahavira would not have left home. Have you ever seen one? There are only hopes. When two people marry, the priest says, “May you be successful!” But has anyone ever been? It is merely a well-wishing. Even the priest himself has not been successful! The elders bless you, “Be successful, son!” Ask them if they were. Has anyone been successful in the world? Even Alexander goes away empty-handed!

Good that you did not succeed in family life, otherwise the house would have become a cage—and then you would never have sought the temple. Good that you did not succeed in becoming famous; had you become a writer or a journalist, the ego would have become strong. The stronger the ego, the harder it is to move toward the Divine. Even a sinner may reach, but not the egoist. The sinner has at least a little humility; through his wrongdoing he has, in some way, learned to bow—“I am a sinner.” But one who has written a book or two, whose name appears in the newspaper—writer, poet, painter, sculptor—he stands stiff with pride.

Have you noticed—writers, painters, poets are often atheists—often! Journalists are often small-minded people. Nothing vast ever becomes important in their lives. Such arrogance!

Good that you lost! In your loss is God’s victory. Only in your disappearance is there space for his presence. And you wanted to be a politician—there it is great grace that you could not. For I have never heard of a politician reaching heaven. Politics cannot lead to heaven. The whole structure of politics is infernal—the tricks, the manipulations, the cunning—all from hell. And the greatest torment of hell is that you will find all the politicians gathered there. Do not be afraid of the fire—that is an old tale. The fire is all right; it does not harm so much. But you will find politicians of every kind there; you will be tormented by their schemes. The greatest peril of hell is that all the politicians are there. Although whenever a politician dies, we say he has become “heavenly”—I have not heard of it yet.

Once, they say, a politician by some mistake reached heaven—perhaps by some trick. The very moment he arrived, two sadhus also passed away and came there. The sadhus were astonished. They were pushed aside, and the politician was welcomed grandly. Red carpets were rolled out. Bands played! Flowers showered! The sadhus felt great pain: this is the limit! These sinners were having their way on earth, and here too they are having their way. And we at least lived with the hope that in heaven we would be welcomed—yet here too we are kept standing at the back. Then what Jesus said—that the last shall be first—is all nonsense! Those who were first there remain first here as well, it seems. At least here they should have put him behind and taken us ahead.

Still, they kept quiet; they were new arrivals. Not proper to speak at once. A long time passed—welcomes, sarangi and tabla and all the instruments, and apsaras danced. They stood at the door watching; no one even called them inside. When the politician finally went in and all the noise subsided and flowers lay scattered, they too were taken in. They thought perhaps now they would also be welcomed—but there was no welcome. No bands, no garlands. Finally it was too much. They asked the gatekeeper, “What is this? Was there some mistake? Was that welcome meant for us and he got it? And if there was no mistake, if this is how it is, then explain the secret.”

The gatekeeper said, “Don’t be upset. Sadhus come to heaven all the time; this is the first time a politician has come, so we welcomed him! And there is little chance he will ever come again. So a rare error happened—that’s all.”

You were spared politics—that is good, that is very good. You were spared all this because you lost. Consider loss your good fortune; take it as a blessing. To the defeated, the Name of Hari! It is in the life of the one who has lost that the meaning of God’s Name is revealed. The winner stiffens with pride. So this is the Lord’s grace, your good fortune, that you lost. And perhaps because of that very loss you have come here to me.

Now you ask: “I have come to you, I feel somewhat reassured. And now I want to know: what is my personal movement and destination?”

Now that you have come here, drop even this “personalness.” The moment you drop the personal, your destination will appear. Drop the “I-ness.” In this “I-ness” there still lingers a faint, smudged line of old conditioning—the one who wanted to be a politician, the one who wanted to be a famous writer or journalist, the one who wanted to be a happy, prosperous householder—some trace, some soot remains. Drop this personalness too. Remove it as well.

All that you have done till now has been defeated, but within a little taste of identity, of “I,” still remains. Let that go too. When that goes, there will be light. And then there will be no need to ask what the destination is; the destination will be obvious. Your eyes will open. The destination is not outside somewhere! It is not a matter of going anywhere. Did you not hear yesterday? Ashtavakra says: the Self neither goes nor comes. The Self does not travel. Then what destination? The Self is exactly where it should be. You are sitting precisely at the spot where your treasure is buried. Your kingdom is in your own nature. Only this faint line remains—it is natural. You have lived in turmoil so long, it leaves a bit of a print. Wipe away that print too. Here, forget the past. Let even the memory of it go. What did not happen, did not happen. Now be here wholly—belong here. Neither ahead nor behind—let this very moment be everything, and in this very moment the supreme peace will be revealed. In that peace everything will be revealed, everything will be clear.

The nectar was infinite; I sipped only a palmful.
Spring dwelt in my heart; I offered only a single flower.
On the day of my dissolving, this thought comes to me:
In such a vast age, what a small life I lived!

Here I would like the full springtime of your life to bloom. Do not ask for a blossom or two—or later you will regret it. The vast was possible, and you kept asking for the small.

I understand your difficulty. People come to me. A friend came and took sannyas. Even as he was taking sannyas, something felt a bit off to me; there was no fragrance of sannyas on his face. He touched my feet, but it seemed like a traditional habit—there was no prasad in it. He asked for sannyas, so I gave it. No sooner had he taken sannyas than he said, “I am in a great tangle, that’s why I came. Please get me transferred. I’m stuck in Pathankot and want to go to Ranchi. I came to your feet thinking—how can you not do at least this much! At least this much you will surely do.”

I asked him, “Tell me honestly—did you take sannyas for this? Like a bribe—that since I’ve taken sannyas I’ll have the right to ask?”

He said, “Well, you know everything—how can I lie? I took sannyas for this very reason... Having taken sannyas I am now yours, so you should take care of it!”

“But what are you asking me to take care of? From Pathankot to Ranchi—what difference will it make? What are you asking for?” Many may not be so explicit, but search within deeply and you will find such demands hiding in the unconscious.

Students come and say, “We want to meditate so that our memory improves.” What will you do with your memory? What have the great memorizers ever achieved? “We have to pass exams, come first, get a gold medal—so we meditate!”

Another comes, the body is ailing. He says, “The body remains sick. The doctor says there’s some mental disturbance, so I’m ill—so I’ll meditate!”

You are asking for the trivial from the Vast. You will not get the trivial—and you will miss the Vast too.

The nectar was infinite; I sipped only a palmful.
Spring dwelt in my heart; I offered only a single flower.
On the day of my dissolving, this thought comes to me:
In such a vast age, what a small life I lived!

You will regret it later! Do not raise any demand that stands around the “I.” Ask for something beyond the “I.”

Today once again I awaken love,
open all the shuttered doors,
this agarwood, smoke, fragrance
choking every corner of the golden house,
I bathe it in open, golden sunlight.
Today once again I call to you,
and whatever I am—
what is known and familiar, lived,
owned, “mine,”
wealth and accumulation—
I pour it out, one grain at a time, in offering.

Whatever has been lived, known, claimed—pour it out, scatter it! Forget, let it pass! Let the past go. What has not happened has not happened. Clear the way so that what is to happen may happen. Remove this rubbish and debris.

Today once again I call to you,
and whatever I am—
what is known and familiar, lived,
owned, “mine,”
wealth and accumulation—
I pour it out, one grain at a time, in offering.

At the Lord’s door, only when you stand naked, empty-handed—so empty that even you are not there, only like a void—only then is your bowl filled.

The temple is yours—whose are the gods?
The prostration is yours—on whom did the flowers fall?
No, no—I have fallen, I have bowed.
I am the temple, and the deity is yours.
There inside, resting upon the pedestal,
your hands brimming with prasad,
and here, outside the threshold, I am emptied of all.

The day you are emptied outside the threshold, on that day the Lord’s hands, brimming with prasad, will pour it into your bowl.

There inside, resting upon the pedestal,
your hands brimming with prasad,
and here, outside the threshold, I am emptied of all!

Empty yourself, if you wish to be filled. Efface yourself, if you wish to be. Only the void receives the hospitality of the Whole.

One must understand boredom. What is boredom?

There can be many reasons for boredom. The first: when something does not really register with you and you have to hear it again and again, boredom is natural. By repeated hearing it can even begin to feel as if you have understood, and yet you have not—because feeling that you have understood is not understanding. With repetition the words seem familiar, the talk seems familiar. My vocabulary isn’t very big—hardly three or four hundred words. I am no scholar! I keep using the same words again and again.

So through repeated hearing you start getting the feeling that you have understood. But in fact nothing has been understood. For if it were understood there would be transformation. Understanding is revolution. Until there is revolution, understand that understanding has not yet happened.

And until it does dawn on you, I will have to repeat. If you have not understood and I move on to the next lesson, things will go wrong. Then you will never understand. As it is, even the first lesson has not been grasped.

You must have heard the story from the Mahabharata. Drona taught the first lesson. Arjuna finished it and came back, Duryodhana finished it and came back; all the students finished and returned. Yudhishthira said, “I am not ready yet, I will do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow passed, the day after passed, days kept passing. Drona was very puzzled, for he had thought Yudhishthira would be the most gifted. He was quiet, gentle, humble. The other students moved ahead—someone reached the tenth lesson, someone the twelfth—this one was stuck on the first. This was a real mess. Within a week even the teacher’s patience broke, and he asked, “What is the matter? What obstacle is there in the first lesson?”

Yudhishthira said, “If you want me to do what the others have done, there is no problem.”

The first lesson carried the injunction: Speak the truth. Everyone memorized it and came back: “First lesson—speak the truth.” Yudhishthira said, “But from that day I have been trying to speak the truth; it still hasn’t settled in me, I still slip into lies. So until speaking the truth happens, how can I move to the second lesson?”

Then perhaps Drona realized what a mistaken notion he had been carrying about him! All the boys had simply memorized—“Speak the truth”—the way a parrot memorizes. Teach a parrot, “Speak the truth, speak the truth,” and it will repeat it. But repeating “Speak the truth” doesn’t mean truth-speaking has begun! No one had taken the lesson to that depth. Yudhishthira said, “Master, if in my whole life even this one lesson comes, I am blessed! What is the need to go to a second lesson then? Speak the truth—enough. Let me immerse myself in this first lesson; let me become juice-soaked in it.”

You hear the same words, the same pointers toward truth. Hearing them again and again you feel, “I’ve got it.” Be like Yudhishthira. Count it as understanding only when it comes into your life. And until it comes into your life, if I go on to other lessons, my connection with you will snap.

And there is another snag. In what I am teaching you there is no second lesson at all; there is only one. This whole book has just one chapter. You can have me say it any way you like—sometimes in the name of Ashtavakra, sometimes Mahavira, sometimes Buddha, sometimes Patanjali, Kabir, Mohammed, Jesus—however you want me to say it, I will still say the same thing. The lesson is one. There will be minor differences here and there in the ways of explaining, but what I am pointing to is one. Whichever finger you ask me to use, the moon I indicate is the same. I have five fingers, ten fingers—sometimes I will point with this hand, sometimes with that; sometimes with one finger, sometimes another; sometimes I will even make a fist and point—but the moon is one. And the way to lead you toward that moon cannot be many.

So those who are filled with understanding, who live a little intelligently, will be delighted that I keep saying the same thing to them in many, many forms. I am hammering from every side. But the nail to be driven is one. I keep finding new pretexts, but the nail to drive is the same.

But those who listen only with the intellect and conclude, “I have understood”—because they have heard the words, they know the words—they will run into difficulty; they will start to be bored. So that is one reason boredom arises.

The second cause of boredom is different. When you first come to listen, often your curiosity is less about what I am saying and more about the way I say it. People go out and say, “Well said!” What was said doesn’t matter to them; the manner of saying matters. Now the manner is mine and will remain mine. If you keep listening every day, slowly you will feel the style has become old. That too is natural. If your taste was for the style, then if not today, tomorrow boredom will arise.

Then there are many people who come only for the little stories I sometimes tell in between. They even write me letters: “You haven’t remembered Mulla Nasruddin for two or three days?” I am speaking on Mahavira—they are listening for Mulla Nasruddin. I am speaking on Mohammed—they are listening for Mulla Nasruddin. I am speaking on Moses—they are listening for Mulla Nasruddin. I am speaking on Manu—they are listening for Mulla Nasruddin.

This is as if I have laid a meal for you and you go on eating only the chutney. Chutney is tasty, granted; but it will not nourish you. It would have been fine to take it along with the bread. I placed the chutney precisely so the bread would go down your throat. The chutney was only a device to get the bread down. If it would go without chutney, so much the better; if not, then use the chutney. But you have forgotten the bread and ask only for more chutney.

So gradually such a person will also get bored, because he will see that this man insists on feeding bread. You came for the chutney; my insistence is on the bread. Even when I use the chutney it is only to get the bread down your throat. You may know your reason for coming; I know my work—to get some truth down your throat. Everything else is just an arrangement to deliver the truth. If you are ready to swallow it plain, it will happen easily and simply. Otherwise I will make delicacies, invent devices; but what will be put in is the same. From this too boredom arises.
Then the one who has asked... “Samadhi” has asked. There was a time I was traveling all over the country. My way of speaking was different then. I was speaking to crowds. The crowd was not tuned into a single wavelength with me. There were a thousand kinds of people, mostly at the base level. If you have to speak to a crowd, you have to speak in the manner of the crowd. I was traveling all over the country. I might come again to a village after a year, two years. At that time, those who heard me could understand more—the words were at their level. But I was traveling for another purpose. I was not roaming for their entertainment. I was traveling with this purpose: that from among them I would choose a few people, search for them; I would knock door to door. Then whoever truly agreed to the journey would come to me. Back then I used to come to you. Now I do not come to you; now you have to come to me.
“Samadhi” became interested in me in those very days. Many of those who became interested in me then have gone away. They would, because the reason for their curiosity ended. At that time what I was saying was sensational. Now what I am saying is very serious. Then I was speaking for the crowd; now I am speaking for a class—for a select few—well-prepared, disciplined. Then I was also fine for those who had mere curiosity. Today I speak to those who are filled with true inquiry. And in fact, I speak to those who are filled with the urge for liberation.

So a difference has come. Of those who came to me in those days, ninety-nine percent have left. I knew they would. I had not really spoken for them. It was only because of the one percent who remained that I had to speak even to the ninety-nine percent. I have chosen those few.

Now, even here, I am not speaking to a crowd. I no longer speak by paying much attention to you. I don’t worry whether it will interest you or not, whether it will appeal to you or not. I do not speak keeping you in mind. Now my attention is on what I have to say.

And gradually I would prefer that those who do not find it interesting, who feel bored—step aside, take their leave. Because I will go deeper and deeper. Soon a moment will come when only a very few birds will remain here. And when only those few birds remain, I will be able to say to them exactly what I must say.

See, in primary school thousands, millions enroll; in middle school they are sifted, in high school sifted further; in college, more; at the university, even more—they keep getting sifted. In the end, very few remain.

My speaking has passed through these steps. Along the way several hassles have appeared. Some primary-school students got stuck. They developed an attachment to me; they stayed, could not go. Some middle-school students also remained; attachment arose, they could not go. Now they are in great difficulty. Now a noose has tightened around their neck. They cannot go, because attachment to me has grown. And now they cannot even understand what is happening. What is being said? It is far beyond them.

Whoever feels bored—either change yourself, or leave me. There are only two ways. I am not going to change. I will not now say anything designed to reduce your boredom. In truth, for those who remain at the end I will speak in such a way that there will be nothing but boredom.

You may not know, but boredom is a device of meditation. It is a childish habit to always want a new toy; a new thing; a new wife; a new house. It is childish. It is childhood, not maturity.

For centuries the true masters have used boredom as an experiment. In Zen monasteries in Japan the entire arrangement is of boredom. You must rise at three in the night, by rule, like the hands of a clock. You must bathe. Minutes are prescribed. You will get tea—the same tea you have been drinking for twenty years, not a grain of difference. Then you sit for meditation—the same meditation you have been doing for years, the same posture. The monks’ heads are shaved so that there remain fewer differences in their faces. Shaven heads begin to look almost the same—have you noticed? Much of what differentiates faces is the hair. Shave everyone’s head and even your friends will be hard to recognize. As in the military—the uniform is the same; such uniformity exists for monks.

See, I have put you in ochre! That thins the personality. So a Buddhist monk wears the same robe, keeps a shaven head, performs the same acts, walks in the same gait. The same every day. Then walking meditation, then sitting, then walking again. The whole day meditation! Then the same master, the same questions, the same answers, the same discourses, the same sutras of Buddha; then night; then sleep at the exact time. The same food every day!

You will be amazed that in Zen monasteries they have even removed trees. Because trees keep changing. Sometimes leaves come, sometimes they fall; sometimes flowers bloom, sometimes they do not. With the seasons there is change. Even that much change they did not like. In Zen monasteries they made gardens of sand and rocks. The garden by their meditation hall—the rock garden—is made of stones and sand. There is never any change in it. It is exactly the same day after day. You come again and again—the same and the same! What is the purpose? There is a reason behind it.

When you keep hearing the same, doing the same, and the same is maintained all around, gradually your childish hankering for the new departs. You become content. The mind’s curiosity dies, and the habit of seeking stimulation is lost.

After passing through boredom a moment comes when peace is attained. The seeker of the new can never be peaceful. The seeker of novelty will always remain in trouble. Because with each and every thing, boredom will arise.

Don’t you see? You live in a house—as long as it was new, fine for two or four days, then the debate begins. Then, “Let us build another house; let us buy another.” You put on a dress, and now, “Let us make another.”

Women—don’t you see?—keep sari upon sari. Hours go by; the husband is honking below. The train must be caught, or there is a function to attend, a wedding is about to begin, and they have not yet left the house; and the wife still cannot decide... she takes out one sari, then another. Such attachment to saris! To the new, to change! A sari worn once—its taste is gone. In that sari she has already displayed her beauty; now she wants another look. Change the hairstyle. Change the style of the hair. Wear new ornaments. Do something new!

This is the childish person. If you come here carrying this insistence—that I must tell you something new every day—then you have come to the wrong place. I will say the same. My tone is one. As you listen, slowly the restlessness of your mind—“let there be something new”—will disappear. Only with its disappearance does peace happen. What happens after passing through boredom is peace.

So these discourses are not just discourses; they are also an experiment in meditation. That is why I speak every day. How much can there be to say? For nearly three years I have been speaking every day without a break. And for thirty years I will keep speaking like this, if I remain. So what new can there be to say? I could speak for three hundred years. It would make no difference. This is a device of meditation. And those who have truly understood while sitting here no longer care about what my words are, about what I am saying—now, for them, just sitting here is a shower of meditation.

But if you have come already insisting to hear something, trouble arises. If you come presuming you will hear this or that, that there will be entertainment, that this will happen, that that will happen—then a hurdle is created. If you come empty—“we will see whatever happens”—then there is no hurdle.

One day Mulla Nasruddin, quarreling with his wife, was going to work. He was angry, filled with anger, when someone on the way asked, “Big man, what time is it on your watch?” He said, “What is that to you?”

A man full of quarrel! Even if someone asks the time on his watch, he says, “What is that to you?” Whatever time there is on my watch is what it is. The watch is mine—what business is it of yours? A smoke is over his eyes—through that smoke he sees things.

So if you have come carrying some smoke—of any kind: of attachment, of opposition—then there will be a hurdle. If you have come thinking you will hear something new, there will be a hurdle. I have given no such assurance. If you have come empty—“I will get to sit near him for an hour; I will get a chance to be with him. Speaking is a pretext. Listening is a pretext. For a little while we will be together, flow in one current”—then whatever you hear will be meaningful. In that, the current of rasa will flow. So it depends on your listening.

And this even “Samadhi” understands—that there has been no change.

“Then why do I experience boredom while reading, listening, and meditating?”

Perhaps you have not even desired transformation yet. I know “Samadhi.” Perhaps there is not yet even the desire for transformation. Perhaps the desire is for something else—and that desire is not being fulfilled. Someone wants wealth; wealth is not coming, so he thinks, “Let me turn to religion and meditation.” But inside the desire is for wealth. Someone wants love; not finding love, he thinks, “Somehow let me involve myself in religion, in meditation”—but inside the itch for love remains. So search within yourself.

For the one who wants transformation, it will happen. But if you do not really want it—if you want something else, and you have only wrapped this talk of transformation around you on the surface, merely as an ornament, merely as a pretext to hide something—then a hurdle will arise. Then it will not be possible. Then you will want to hear only what you want to hear.

Just now it happened that while I was speaking on Buddha’s sutras, Buddha has said such things as do not sit well with travelers coming from the West. Before that I was speaking on the Hassid mystics. The Hassid mystics say things that can appeal to the Western traveler. The Hassid says: this world belongs to God. All its colors and melodies are His. Wife and children are fine. Enjoyment is fine. In enjoyment one has to kindle prayer. Enjoyment itself is a way of prayer. So that was going down well. Then came Buddha’s words. And in Buddha’s words are such sayings as: what is woman? A heap of bones, flesh, marrow! A leather bag, a pouch, in which garbage is stuffed!

So many Western friends wrote letters saying that Buddha’s talk doesn’t sit well with them and it makes them very agitated. One woman even wrote that she is leaving. “What sort of talk is this! I had come here to find how my love could deepen—and here dispassion is being spoken of.”

Now if you have come to deepen love, then certainly Buddha’s talk will feel very disturbing. That woman, in annoyance, did leave. She wrote, “I have not come to hear this, nor do I want to hear it. The body is beautiful, and these people say it is filth, rubbish filled.” If you have come in search of love and you hear Buddha’s words, there will be great difficulty.

“Samadhi” has not yet lived the world—there is a longing to live. And there is not even the courage to live.

Young men come to me and say, “Free us from sexual desire. The talk of celibacy appeals.” They are still young. They have not yet suffered the pain of sex—so how will there be freedom? And they do not even have the courage to enter sex. Because they say there will be responsibility; if we marry, there will be children; then what will happen to sannyas? Will we be able to get out or not? They are afraid of the entanglement. And they do not yet have their own experience that it is an entanglement.

So I say to them: take on the entanglement. Religion is not so cheap. Religion comes only through the experience of life.

So if you have come to hear something, if you have a belief, a notion, a taste within, and the talk does not match it, then you will be bored, you will be troubled. You will feel, “This is useless chatter.” But if you come empty, if the moment of search has arrived, if the fruit is ripe, then just a little waft of wind—and the fruit will fall! What I am saying to you is like blowing a stormy wind. If the fruit is even a little ripe, it is bound to fall. If it does not fall, it is unripe; the time to fall has not yet come.

Ripen! There is no hurry either. Do not listen to me. If something bores you, why listen? Why come? Leave it! Go where there is juice for you. If there is juice in life for you, do not be afraid. Do not listen to the rishis and sages! Go, descend into life! Only by suffering hell will the longing to be free of hell arise. Only by knowing sorrow will the feeling for transformation arise.

This revolution is not cheap. It happens only to those for whom, through their own experience, such a moment arrives when they feel, “I must change.” Not because someone has explained it; but where one’s very life-breath says, “I must change! Now it will not do without changing.”

My words will not change you. If you come into the state of change, my words will serve as a spark; your house will catch fire.

A man died. He reached heaven. God asked him, “What did you do down in the world?” He said, “I was a holy man, I did nothing.”

God asked, “Did you drink wine?”

He said, “What are you saying! I always stayed away!”

“Did you have relations with women?”

He said, “I cannot even think that God would ask such questions! Ask something from the Ramayana or the Gita, which I had memorized. What is this!”

God said, “All right then, at least you must have smoked a cigarette?”

The man got annoyed. He said, “Stop this nonsense! I am a holy man...!”

Then God said, “Good fellow! Why were you sent down then—to loaf about? What were you doing so many days? Where were you all this time? And if you did none of this, what value has your holiness? Your holiness is a kind of cowardice. Go back.”

Holiness is a fruit—of great growth! Only after passing through all the pains, all the crises, all the struggles of life does the fruit of holiness ripen.

So the things I am saying will enter your heart—your heart will become their treasure chest—only when you have watched life awake, lived it, burned in it, wandered, knocked at door after door. Only after being bruised at a thousand doors does one reach the door of the temple. And then, wherever you are, its night-and-day sound begins to be heard.

Where the body is harried, there the mind is in bliss—
where the waves of melody,
swinging from the ocean of rasa,
come crashing on the shore of life.

Where the body is harried, there the mind is in bliss—
where the ripples of song,
in the lap of the lake of nectar,
sing the monsoon of eternal beauty.

Then, wherever the body may be. Wherever your body is, in whatever condition...

Where the body is harried, there the mind is in bliss—
where the waves of melody,
swinging from the ocean of rasa,
come crashing on the shore of life.

Where the body is harried, there the mind is in bliss—
where the ripples of song,
in the lap of the lake of nectar,
sing the monsoon of eternal beauty.

But you must pass along the path of the body. Without passing through, nothing can be gained. The revolution will happen, certainly it will; but it is not cheap—it has to be earned.

Here there is another class of listeners as well, those who have come ripened. Their matter becomes something else.

A friend has written:
“There is a rosy intoxication in meeting you;
drunk on that, I am utterly inebriated.
Now I am lost even in awareness—
I am proud of being unconscious.”

Another friend has written:
“O Lord, accept my prostrations, drowned in tears of awe,
and grant provisions and blessing that
the seeds of passions hidden in the unconscious be burnt to ash.”

Another friend has written:
“I am ignorant, foolish from birth,
I never knew even this much difference—
whom should I call my own,
whom should I call a stranger?
How out of tune this life was,
I could not shape it into rhythm.
There was no smile upon these lips,
no sparkle in these eyes—
but today, having found the Lord’s vision,
I have found everything!”

It depends—it depends on the state of your consciousness. Some will get bored; some will gain the Lord’s vision. Some will get bored; for some the doors of the temple will open. It all depends on you.

Hari Om Tatsat!