Maha Geeta #44

Jesus has said: Those who are last shall become first in the kingdom of my Lord. But one must truly be last. Even one who stands at the end is not necessarily the last. Even at the end, the mind may still desire to be first. If the craving to be first has disappeared, and there is a willingness to be last—acceptance, suchness (tathata)—then what Jesus said, I also say to you: those who are last will become first.

The race to be first is madness. In the world it may be fine; in the search for truth it is an obstacle. The world is a madhouse—there is running, ambition, rivalry, struggle. The one who sets out on the journey of truth will arrive only if he is free of the race. Let competition drop; let rivalry dissolve. There is no struggle with anyone else. Truth is not a kind of wealth that if another takes it, you will have less. Worldly wealth is such that if another seizes it, you are deprived; if someone takes possession, you remain poor. So before anyone else grabs it, you must. Hence the race.

Worldly wealth is limited. Desires are many; wealth is scant. Many desirers, little wealth. If someone wants to be president in a country of six hundred million, only one will become president. And yet all six hundred million are intoxicated with the idea of being president. So there will be difficulty, struggle, fever, derangement. The one most deranged will become president. The one who runs in this race utterly mad, losing all sense and stake, will win. Here the mad win; the wise lose. Here winning is merely a sign of derangement.

The names you revere in history should be in the registers of madhouses. Those around whom you weave history were the most diseased—Genghis, Tamerlane, Napoleon, Alexander, Hitler, Mao. A man’s race is to take possession of all—and if he himself can’t, at least someone else surely will.

Hence, don’t delay. Hence such haste, such frenzy. Where is peace, where is rest! How can you sit! If you pause even for a moment, you miss. Others won’t rest; they are running on. So run, run! Stop only when you reach the cremation ground; fall into the grave—only then stop.

But the wealth of truth is boundless. There is no competition between Buddha and Mahavira—if Buddha attained, that doesn’t keep Mahavira from attaining; if Mahavira attained, it does not prevent Krishna; if Krishna attained, how will Muhammad attain? Truth is vast, like the open sky; drink as much as you wish; dive as deeply as you like—you cannot exhaust it.

Therefore, in the realm of truth, what is first and what is last? First and last are useful only where there is struggle.

And a disciple must be the last. Discipleship itself means the readiness to stand at the end; the willingness to take one’s place at the back of the line. The dearest to the Master is the one who stands the farthest back. And if a Master’s favorites are those who stand in front, then he is no Master; and the disciples are not truly disciples either. The one who stands quietly, waits in silence; who has never asked; who has never raised a clamor; who has never said, “It’s been too long, how long will you keep me standing? Others keep receiving and I remain deprived”—one who has said nothing of the sort; whose waiting is endless; whose patience is extraordinary—if such a lastness is there, then surely I tell you: those who are last are the very ones who are first.

But even while standing last, if the melody of being first still plays in your mind, if the longing to be first still burns, then you only stand at the end—you are not the last. Remember, merely standing at the back has nothing to do with true lastness.

A beggar, too, harbors the lust to be an emperor. Then what is the difference between emperor and beggar? Only this much: one is endowed, the other longs for endowment. The difference is not great. If the beggar gets the chance, he will become an emperor. He didn’t get the chance, he failed, he lost—that’s another matter; but he is not content where he is. The same diseased desire remains, like a wound.

So being poor does not necessarily mean you are truly renounced. Poverty may simply be defeat. Leaving the world is not necessarily sannyas. You may leave the world in dejection. You are tired, victory seems impossible; you persuade the mind, “Let’s give it up, let’s withdraw”—at least you’ll be able to say, “We didn’t lose because we were weak; we never fought.”

You see it in school: as exams approach, many students try to avoid sitting for them—at least they can say, “We never failed; we never sat. Had we sat, we would surely have passed with a gold medal; we just didn’t sit.” As exams near, students start falling ill.

I was a university teacher. A student stayed in my class for three years. I grew a bit puzzled. Every year, exactly two or three days before the exams, he would come down with a fierce fever, cold, cough—all kinds of troubles. His temperature would rise to 105, 106 degrees. But this happened every year right before the exams. After three years I called him and said, “This illness doesn’t seem to belong to the body; it’s an illness of the mind. Because, like clockwork, it strikes three or four days before the exam. And as soon as it’s clear you can’t sit, that you’ve missed a paper or two, you recover and are perfectly fine. Perhaps you yourself don’t know it, but the mind is playing a great trick. The mind is saying: ‘What can we do now! We fell ill; it’s not in our hands. Had we sat, we would have surely passed, even won the gold medal; we just couldn’t sit. So at least we’re spared the bad name of failing.’”

Many sannyasins take sannyas in exactly this way. In life it seems there will be no victory here; here people more mad than we are are already struggling. Here it is very difficult. It’s a snatch-and-grab. A throat-cutting competition. Here your very life will be squeezed out. To speak of winning is beside the point—you’ll be ground into dust, people will walk over your corpse. So get out of here. One who withdraws in such a state of defeat and dejection is not the last. Within him the longing to be first still remains. Now he will try to be first among renunciates; to be first among renouncers. If it won’t work in this world, then at least in God’s realm...

On the day of Jesus’ death, when his disciples gathered to bid farewell at night, they asked, “Before you go, tell us one thing: when we reach the Lord’s kingdom, you will certainly stand right beside the Lord; who will stand beside you? Which of us twelve disciples will have that good fortune? It’s certain you’ll stand next to God—that’s granted. Who will stand next to you? We are twelve. At least make it clear—what will our order be?”

Just think! Would you call these sannyasins? These very ones became Jesus’ apostles; they became the carriers of his message! Did they understand Jesus, that at the final moment they ask such an absurd question? Judas already betrayed him, and they too betrayed him. Judas sold him for thirty rupees, and these too were ready to sell; their intelligence remained exactly the same. In this world one was a fisherman, one a carpenter, one a woodcutter; in this world they were losers. Leaving this world, now they dreamed that in the other world they would teach a lesson—to the rich, the emperors, the politicians: “Stand back! We stand near the Lord! We suffered there!”

If such longing is there, you are not the last. So understand the meaning of lastness. It does not mean merely standing at the end. It means being willing to be last; that the race to be first has fallen silent, become empty; that you have said, “Where I stand is God’s grace. Where I stand, I have no desire for otherwise, no demand; I am fulfilled here.” If one is such a last, then becoming first is certain.

More than a Brahmin by birth, one would have to call Einstein a Brahmin. Someone who is a Brahmin merely because he was born in a Brahmin household—Einstein is far more of a Brahmin than that. Someone who becomes a Brahmin by donning the sacred thread—Einstein is more of a Brahmin than that.

Two days before his death someone asked Einstein: “If you were born again, what would you want to be? Would you want to be a scientist again?” Einstein opened his eyes and said, “No, no—never, not even by mistake. A mistake that happened once is enough; a second time I would not want to be anything special. I would become a plumber—do some small, ordinary work. No more being special. I have seen it; nothing was gained. Now I would like to be ordinary.”

This is precisely the spirit of a Brahmin—this humility! Even so, I cannot call him a complete Brahmin, because he came to know the cosmos—the outside; but he did not come to know the inside. Yet he is better than the Brahmins, because he said that he knew nothing of the inner. Those who have read the scriptures and memorized them, and then claim that their rote is knowledge—Einstein had more Brahminhood than they do—at least he said, “I know nothing of the within. Inside I am a blank, utterly empty! I solved many riddles of this world, but the riddles of my own interior remained entangled.”

The Upanishads say: He who says “I know,” know that he does not know. And he who says “I do not know,” pause—perhaps he knows.

Einstein says: “I know nothing of the inner.” His knowledge of the outer never allowed the delusion to arise that he had known the inner. His outer prestige did not create any confusion. His public acclaim was immense—hardly two or four people in human history have been so honored. Yet even so, no ego arose out of it, no “I” was inflated. So he is more of a Brahmin than the Brahmins. But what he knew was of the outside. He knew the expansion of the cosmos, the expansion of matter. He explored distant moons and stars. But in relation to himself, no deep experience happened—no journey within took place.

A Brahmin is one who comes to know the Brahman within himself. A Brahmin is one who knows the Brahman within and the outer universe as one. A Brahmin is one who realizes that the inner and the outer are but the expansion of the One.

And remember, when I say “know,” I mean experience it. Not by hearing, not by reading. What is heard or read is dangerous—it creates delusion. It seems you have known, yet you have not. Ignorance gets hidden; only a thin veneer of knowledge settles on top.

Secondhand, stale knowledge is worse than ignorance.

Uddalaka said this to his son Shvetaketu... When Shvetaketu returned from the guru’s house “knowing everything”—not in my sense of knowing, but in the dictionary sense—knowing everything, accomplished, with the Vedas memorized; when he returned, naturally he had acquired a certain stiffness. The father wasn’t so educated. When sons return from the university, for the first time they feel pity for the father: “Poor man, he knows nothing!” So it must have been with Shvetaketu when he saw Uddalaka. Shvetaketu was returning having won all the prizes at the gurukul. He had become so stiff within that he did not even touch his father’s feet. He said, “I should touch the feet of this old ignoramus who knows nothing?” Seeing this, tears came into the father’s eyes. Not because the son did not touch his feet, but because he saw that the boy had returned knowing nothing. One who returns so full of ego—how could he have returned knowing?

So the first thing Uddalaka said to Shvetaketu was: “Listen, have you known That, by knowing which all is known?” Shvetaketu said, “What is this? What are you talking about? Whatever my guru could teach, I have learned. Whatever my guru knew, I have come to know. This was never even brought up—there was never any talk of That One, knowing which all is known. What is this One?”

Uddalaka said, “Then go back. With what you have brought back you will not become a Brahmin. In our lineage we have never been Brahmins by birth; in our lineage we have become Brahmins by knowing. Go. Return having known. This will not do. You have put the scriptures on your head; your burden has increased. You have not become weightless, you have not become empty; the fire of Brahman has not been lit within you—yet you are not a Brahmin. And remember, in our family we do not claim to be Brahmins just because we were born so. Only by knowing Brahman did our forefathers make their claim. And until this knowing happens, do not return.”

Shvetaketu went back. It seemed a very difficult matter. For he had already learned all that the guru knew. When he told his guru, “My father has created such a puzzle! He says: Come back having known That One, by knowing which all is known, and without knowing which all knowing is futile. What is that One? You never spoke of it!”

The guru said, “It cannot be spoken of. It cannot be bound in words. But if you are determined to know it, there are methods. Words are not the method. Scripture is not the method; doctrines are not the method. All that I could explain to you, I have. You know as much as I know. But what you are now raising belongs to another plane, another dimension. Do one thing—go, count how many cows are in the ashram. Take them and go to the forest. Go far, far away—where even the shadow of man does not fall. Where no human shadow falls, the sense of society drops away.

“Where society is left behind, it becomes easier for the ego to drop. When you are alone you are not stiff. In your bathroom while bathing you are innocent; you even make faces at yourself in the mirror—become like a small child. If you come to know someone is peeping through the keyhole—you become alert, the ego returns! You walk alone in the morning on the path, no one is there, there is silence—then the ego is not. For the ego to be, a ‘you’ must be there. The ‘I’ cannot stand without a ‘you.’

“So go far away where no human shadow falls. Live only with the cows; make friends only with the cows. They will be your companions, your family.

“Surely cows are wondrous. Look into their eyes—so untainted, so serene!

“If ever you feel the urge to relate, Shvetaketu, look into the cows’ eyes. And do not return until the cows have become a thousand. Calves will be born and grow.”

There were four hundred cows in the ashram; Shvetaketu took them all into the forest. It would take years to reach a thousand. He would sit under trees, by the lakes; the cows grazed; in the evening he rested, slept among them. Days came and went; nights came and went; moons rose and set; the sun rose and went. Slowly even the sense of time faded, because the sense of time is with man. In the forest there is no need for a calendar. No need to keep a watch. No need to worry whether it is morning or evening, what is what. And the cows were his only companions—there was nothing to talk about. The guru had said: “Now and then look into their eyes,” so he would look—eyes blank, like the void! Slowly, Shvetaketu became quieter and quieter. The story is very sweet. It is said he became so quiet that he even forgot the instruction that when the herd reached a thousand he should return. When the cows had become a thousand, the cows said, “Shvetaketu, what are you doing? We are now a thousand. The guru had said... Let us return to the ashram. Let us go home.” The cows said it, so he returned. The story is very lovely! Of course the cows did not speak—but the point is clear: he had become so silent, so wordless, that no word arose from his own side; not even a thought. The past had gone—and with the mind it goes. In that silent moment the One is known.

He returned. The guru was standing at the gate. Seeing him approaching, the guru said to the other disciples, “Do you see? A thousand and one cows are returning!”

A thousand and one—because the guru counted Shvetaketu among the cows. He had become a cow: so peaceful, like a cow. He was walking with them just as the cows were walking. There was not even so much difference between him and the cows as “I am a human and you are cows.”

Differences fall with words; non-difference arises in wordlessness. When he stood before the guru and said, “What now is your command?” the guru said, “What now? You have returned already knowing—what is there to explain? Your very presence says you have returned knowing. Now you can return home. Now your father will be pleased—you have become a Brahmin.”

So in that sense, one cannot call Einstein a Brahmin. But Einstein was on the path of becoming a Brahmin. He had known the outer; a deep longing had arisen to know the inner. Still, let me repeat: compared to your so-called Brahmins—even the Shankaracharya of Puri—he was more of a Brahmin.

First thing: either everything that is, is serious, or nothing is. To single something out as “a serious matter” creates a division—as if some things could be non-serious! Either everything is serious, or nothing is.

If there is awakening, everything is mysterious— even a dry leaf falling from a tree. It once happened that someone like Lao Tzu attained enlightenment seeing a dry leaf fall. Then it became a “serious” matter. He was sitting beneath a tree; a leaf, long withered, was hanging on; a slight breeze came, it fell. The leaf drifted down softly through the air—and inside, Lao Tzu fell. He said, “Here everything is coming and going! Today it is; tomorrow it will be gone! This leaf was attached to the tree; just now, before my eyes, it let go. In the same way, one day I will die. This life has no real value.” It became serious.

A Zen nun was returning from the well with water in her pot. It was a full-moon night; in the pot she saw the reflection of the moon. Suddenly the rope snapped, the yoke broke, the pot fell and shattered, the water spilled away—the reflection scattered and vanished. And they say the nun became enlightened. She returned dancing. One thing became clear: only what is a reflection disappears. Therefore, don’t get entangled in reflections. In this world everything vanishes; so this world is a shadow, not the truth. The pot breaking, the yoke slipping—her whole web of desires fell apart. It became serious.

Whatever opens you to the vast becomes a serious matter. And then there are people who can have someone recite the Upanishads in front of them, and they sit there as if someone were playing a flute before a buffalo—still nothing serious happens. Recite the Upanishads a hundred thousand times—what will come of it?

If there is awakening, every moment brings a message. If there is awakening, his name is written on every leaf. If you can be awake, everything is important; if you cannot be awake, nothing is important. Someone can keep hitting you on the head, saying, “This is very important—listen!” If the capacity to listen is not there, what will saying it do?

Certainly, Krishnamurti’s love shows in this—he keeps trying to make you listen; he keeps shaking you. His compassion is evident. He even gets angry sometimes. For he explains and explains—and still, the fun of it… A friend told me. He had gone to hear him. An old man was sitting right up front. Krishnamurti was explaining, “Nothing will happen through meditation as a method; no technique is needed. Wake up here and now!” Then he asked, “Does anyone have any question?” That old man stood up and said, “Sir, how should one meditate?” Krishnamurti banged his head. “I’ve been hammering away for an hour… and he asks how to meditate!”

There are people who have been listening to Krishnamurti for thirty, forty years, sitting there. They will listen till their dying breath—yet they have not listened. To jolt such corpses, again and again he says, “Listen—this is serious! At least listen to this. Missed is missed—but at least listen to this!” He keeps saying it. But those who sit there, sit there. They don’t hear this either. Even “This is serious—listen!” needs a listener. They don’t hear that either. They just sit as they sit—perhaps adjust themselves to sit a little straighter: “All right then!” But listening—that is a bit difficult.

To listen, a certain kind of awareness, an “un-knowing awareness,” is needed. Not the cleverness of the intelligent, but the innocence of a child. I call it “un-knowing awareness”—the innocent awareness of a child. It needs alertness, a quiet inner state. Inside, the chain of words and thoughts should not be running. No web of argument inside. No prejudice inside.

What does “listen” mean? It means: don’t keep inserting your opinion in between; put yourself aside a little. Listen straight. Listening does not mean “agree with me.” Listening only means: keep deciding for or against for later; for now, just listen—listen exactly to what is being said.

You hear only what you want to hear. You hear only what suits you. You hear only up to the point that serves your purpose. You cut and prune as you listen. You allow in only as much as will not be capable of changing you. You allow in only as much as will strengthen your oldness—make you more entrenched, harden and empower your ego. You will go away a little more knowledgeable.

I don’t say this to you. I don’t say it precisely because, after forty years of saying it, whom has Krishnamurti managed to make listen! I simply say what I have to say. Repeating “serious or not” will do nothing. If you have come to listen, you will listen. If you have not come to listen, you will not listen. I leave it to you. I complete my part in speaking. I speak in totality. If you too are in a readiness to listen, if somewhere you and I meet, the happening will happen. If the speaker speaks in totality and the listener also listens in totality, then in the very act of listening, truth is transferred. What cannot be given is received. What cannot be said is also said. The inexpressible gets expressed; the unsayable passes from one hand to another. But for that, the speaker and the listener must come into tune—such a moment where the speaker is in his fullness, with his whole heart, and you too are in your fullness, with your whole heart. If such a meeting happens, then the speaker is no longer a speaker, nor the listener a listener. Master and disciple lose themselves in one another, merge into one.

What is the point, then, of repeating, “Listen seriously”?

Whatever I am saying—either it is all serious, or none of it is. I am fine with either: if you say, “Everything is serious,” I’m fine; then saying “serious” loses its meaning because all is serious. And if you say, “Nothing is serious,” I am fine with that too.

If you ask me what it is—serious or not?—I will tell you, it is all leela, play. Many times it is precisely because of your seriousness that you cannot listen. In seriousness you become heavy, tense. I don’t want to fill you with tension.

If I say to you, “I am saying something serious—listen!” you will sit up straight. What else will you do? You have seen it: in school the teacher says, “Children, concentrate! Something important is being said!” All the children sit up. But children are children—when they sit up, they are merely sitting up: they stare, they bring tension to the head, they show in every way that they are very serious—but they see nothing on the board. Outside a bird flutters its wings—that is heard. Someone passes singing a film song—that is heard. They sit with eyes fixed on the board—nothing is seen. What the teacher is saying—nothing is heard. But they are pretending.

That same pretense continues through life. When someone says, “Serious matter,” you start listening intently. But can you listen intently? You only act as if you do.

No, I want you to listen lightly—playfully. Listen in relaxation. Don’t sit taut. Here we are immersed in a game. No big work is going on here. Listen as you listen to music. You don’t listen to music seriously; you listen absorbedly. If you listen to music with seriousness, it means you haven’t listened at all. Absorbed, you take a dive—and forget yourself.

Here, while listening, listen in such a way that you even forget yourself. In seriousness, you will remember yourself. In seriousness you will remain self-conscious, afraid that you might miss something, lose a word or two. If you listen lightly, playfully, at rest, perhaps the message will reach the heart more easily.

If you cannot listen, I am not annoyed. That you cannot listen is quite natural. Krishnamurti gets annoyed. He is making a very insistent effort that you should listen. And the reason is understandable—he has been explaining for forty years; no one understands. There is a limit. His days of departure are near; even now no one seems to be listening, no one seems to be understanding. Those who claim to understand—their claims are false. Not a single person appears on whom Krishnamurti might feel, “Yes, this one has understood exactly.” So the moment of farewell approaches; a lifetime’s effort seems to have gone to waste; no one seems to be listening or understanding. Out of compassion he gets angry—not out of any personal wrath.

But I am not willing to be angry even out of compassion. It was my joy—I said it; it is your joy—you listened; it is your joy—you did not listen. That’s the end of it. If you don’t want to listen—that’s your choice. Who am I to be angry! And why should I take on the burden that I must make you listen before I go? It is my joy that I want to sing what has happened to me; something has been found and I want to share it. That is my itch—what have you to do with it!

It is the cloud’s anguish that it is full and must rain. Whether the earth will receive it or not, whether she will spread her skirts and welcome it or not; whether the water will flow over rocks and the rocks remain as dry as before; whether the water falls on a desert and turns to vapor and rises back to the sky, no greening born; or whether some soil will receive it, some parched throat, some land be satisfied, and from that satisfaction greenery awakens, flowers bloom, joy and festival arise—what difference does it make! If a cloud must rain, it rains—on mountains, on deserts, on fields and farms, on cement roads. It rains everywhere. It has to rain. Whoever takes it, takes it; whoever doesn’t, doesn’t.

I am not serious in the sense in which Krishnamurti is serious. Krishnamurti is ultra-serious; I am not. That is why I laugh with you, and make you laugh. Religion, to me, is not something to be made a heavy burden. For me, religion is simple. It does not need much strain of intellect; it needs a little innocent lightness. In fun, I tell you serious things. When I want to say something truly serious, I say it in a joke. Because in a joke you remain light, you keep laughing; and in laughter perhaps the serious thing finds a path and reaches your heart. To tell you, “I am saying something serious—listen,” would only make you stiff. Because of your seriousness it would not reach.

You have seen: to convey something into you, some other device is needed. You become so absorbed that you are not on guard. When you are not on guard, something can enter.

You go to see a film—you are not on guard; you are absorbed in the movie. In between an advertisement appears: Lux Toilet Soap! The one who placed the ad there knows that right now you are not serious; you won’t even bother; perhaps you won’t even read it—yet at the corner of the eye an imprint forms: Lux Toilet Soap! Right now you were non-serious; you were not sitting tense; you had no interest in this ad; you were immersed somewhere else. In that immersed state, Lux Toilet Soap quietly entered inside. The guard was not at the gate. It is easier to slip something in.

Sometimes I joke with you; I tell you something funny; while you are laughing, I slip in a single line that reaches within. You had forgotten yourself in laughter; in that gap I gave you a little of what is worth giving.

Many friends ask me, “No religious teacher has ever spoken like this—through laughter.” I say, “You see—because they didn’t, it didn’t reach. Now let me try a little experiment. The serious ones have tried their experiment; it hasn’t reached. Let me try a non-serious experiment.” Then you will see: in the assemblies of religious teachers you will find old men; in my gathering you will find the young as well, children too, and in greater numbers. Because what I am saying is not a compulsion to become serious.

With me a young person can be exuberant, a child can laugh, and an old person can join the celebration. It is my own experiment. I am not saying Krishnamurti is doing wrong. Whatever he is doing must be right for him—that is his knowing, he knows. I am not comparing. Comparison is not even possible. I am doing it in my way; he is doing it in his. Those who are serious should listen to him and understand. Those who are not serious should listen to me and understand. At least understand somewhere!

Verse is certainly closer to prayer than prose. And if you have listened to me, I have been explaining in verse all along—when have I ever spoken prose? What does verse mean?—that which can be sung; that which is singable; that which can be danced. What is verse?—that in which there is music, a rhythm, a cadence. If you are listening rightly, then even when it seems I am speaking prose, I am speaking verse. Because my whole effort is that you may hum, you may sing, you may dance, that a meter may enter your life. Will you recognize it only if I bind it into the framework of poetry?

What Buddha spoke is all verse. What Mahavira spoke is all verse. Prose cannot really be spoken. From the realm of prayer only verse issues. Not that I am saying Buddha is a poet; he is not a poet at all. Of meter and grammar and language he knows nothing. But do not take rhyme to be verse. There are many rhymesters. In rhyming there is no verse. Verse is something greater. Not all poems contain verse; and it is not that there is no verse in any prose, either.

If, while listening to me, a humming arises within you, if my words go in and become a sweet nectar, if they take the form of a wave in you and you are a little shaken, then verse has happened. Verse is more easy, more suitable, for revealing the divine.

So it is no surprise that the Upanishads are in verse, that the Vedas are in verse, that the Quran is singable, that a language as saturated with verse as the Bible has neither been written before nor since. There is a sweetness, an unparalleled rasa. Prose is dry, utilitarian, purposeful, meaningful. Verse is meaningless—free of meaning, empty of meaning; full of juice, yes, but not full of meaning.

A flower blossoms. Ask, what is the meaning? There is no prose there. What is meaning? A rose has bloomed—what meaning? What purpose? If it had not bloomed, what loss? Now that it has, what gain? No, in the marketplace the rose has no meaning. But it has abundant verse. If the rose did not blossom, the whole world would remain unblossomed. If the rose did not blossom, the sun would be sad. If the rose did not blossom, the moon and stars would be pale. If the rose did not blossom, birds would not hum. If the rose did not blossom, men would not fall in love with women, nor women with men. If the rose did not blossom, children would not burst into peals of laughter; the rose belongs with all this laughter. This blossoming of the rose is an essential part of the festival. There is no meaning. This is not prose; this is verse.

Birds sing songs; there is no “content” there. But can you call it empty? Take it in your hand and try to sell it in the market—no buyer will be found. But can you therefore say it has no value? Perhaps not in the marketplace, but on another plane it has value—the plane of the heart. A bird’s humming opens some locked chambers of the heart.

So what I am speaking is verse. I am certainly not a poet. But what I want to say to you is poetry. And if you listen, if you hold it in your heart, if you welcome it within, you will find: infinite flowers will bloom inside you from it!

What I am saying to you is verse, and it can become prayer within you. Give it a little room. Give it a little path. If this seed falls into the soil of your heart, flowers are bound to bloom. This verse may not appear on the outside, but this verse will manifest within you.

And certainly, what I am saying to you is coming out of silence. I would like to speak only from silence, but you are not yet able to hear. Still, what I am saying to you is for silence; it is from silence and for silence. The words I speak come from my emptiness, saturated with emptiness. Chew them a little. Suck them a little. Digest them a little. And you will find: the word has been lost; the void remains. If you neither chew nor digest, you will never come to know the void; the word will go on jangling. Then you will collect words and become a scholar. But if, from my words, you have gathered the emptiness and thrown away the shell of the word, your wisdom, your awakening will arise, your buddhahood will awaken. Words are shells; when a cartridge has been fired, what will you do with the spent casing? The spent shell is just a casing; the real thing has flown.

The real thing I am telling you is emptiness, is silence. Throw away the peel of the word as you discard the rind of a fruit and drink the inner juice—do not attend to the word, attend to the void. Read between the lines, in the in‑betweens; keep your attention on the intervals between word and word. Whenever, while speaking, I become silent, then I am pouring the most. Then fill your vessel to the brim.

Rain upon me, let my body be drenched
Rain upon me, let my heart be drenched
Rain—monsoon upon monsoon
Let there be a light, spilling pitcher
Let the shoulder‑yoke be soaked and heavy
When you rain, let me long
When I long, you rain.
O Bearer of the Downpour!
Let there be a meeting somewhere!
When I rain, you yearn.
When you yearn, I rain.
Let there be a meeting somewhere! Let your thirst
and the water with which I stand at your door
somehow meet.

Rain upon me, let my body be drenched
Rain upon me, let my heart be drenched
Rain—monsoon upon monsoon
Let there be a light, spilling pitcher
Let the shoulder‑yoke be soaked and heavy
When you rain, let me long
When I long, you rain.
O Bearer of the Downpour!
With words I will say nothing
I will dwell in the space between your eyes
Whatever must be borne, I will bear in silence
My heartbeat, my sighs
will ask of you an answer
When you rain, let me long
When I long, you rain.
O Bearer of the Downpour!
This burden weighs on you alone
Above, a stripe of lightning
Is it only my helplessness?
Let a little emptiness be filled in me
Let a little of your weight be laid down
When you rain, let me long
When I long, you rain.
O Bearer of the Downpour!

An extraordinary event can happen; at times it does happen for a moment; sometimes it happens to someone—when suddenly communion flowers: my verse fills you; my eyes meet your eyes; for a moment you become empty; your pitcher turns toward me. Then the nectar flows. Then music descends. And all the music and all the nectar belong to the void. For the whole endeavor of religion is that, somehow, you disappear, so that the divine can be within you. Become empty, and the Full can descend.

It is precisely because of the person that bliss is not happening. The person is necessary for the expectation of bliss; for the experience of bliss, he is a barrier. For the longing and the craving for bliss, the person is needed; for the realization of bliss, the person is not needed at all. When bliss happens, you are scarcely there. In fact, only when you are not, bliss is.

You yourself have tasted this, at least in unpremeditated moments: whenever you were not, a glimpse flashed. Your beloved comes home; you sit hand in hand. For a moment the presence of the beloved absorbs you so totally that you disappear—no thought of yourself remains. A drop slips in, the nectar begins to flow.

Have you ever watched the sun rise? You sit on the riverbank. The sun begins to climb. This morning breeze, the coolness of the water, the stillness, the open sky, the spreading web of beauty woven by the sun’s rays—just for an instant you are taken aback, you forget you are. For to keep the ego intact you must constantly keep remembering it, guarding it.

The ego is not a thing placed inside you like a stone. It is as I often say: like a bicycle—it moves only while you pedal. Forget to pedal for a moment and it topples. The ego is not a rock inside you; it exists only so long as you keep remembering it. Memory is the pedaling. The moment recollection ceases, it is gone.

Listening to music your head starts to sway—ego disappears. In that instant the juice flows, bliss is felt. Beauty, love, meditation, music—or even other unlikely triggers—can sometimes open the same spring. You go to watch a cricket match; you have a taste for it. Others may think you have gone mad, but you sit there spellbound, eyes transfixed, without blinking, forgetting yourself, statue-like. As once Buddha may have sat beneath the Bodhi tree, so at times you sit watching cricket, football, hockey. You return home deeply delighted and say, “What a rasa!” What happened? For a little while you forgot yourself. Wherever self-forgetfulness happens, the ego dissolves.

Even here, while listening to me: whenever you feel joy, notice—it is exactly the moment you get lost in listening, forget yourself, stop remembering.

Ego is not like breath; it is like pedaling a bicycle. Breath continues even if you do not remember it. Breath is natural. You sleep at night and breathing goes on. But does the ego remain in sleep? Does the emperor still know, “I am an emperor”? Does the beggar know, “I am a beggar”? Does the beautiful know, “I am beautiful”? Does the wealthy remember his bank balance? Do you remember that your wife is sleeping in the same room? Nothing is remembered. Not even that the house is yours. If in the night you were lifted onto a stretcher and taken to a hospital, you would not know. Only when you opened your eyes in the morning would you find out. But the breath kept going—in a palace, in a poor hut, in the naked and in the bedecked. A person may fall into a coma for months, yet breath continues. Breath has nothing to do with you; it is a natural event.

Ego is not like breath. It exists only while it is being noticed. The instant it is not noticed, it is gone. Understand this truth. And the instant it is gone—even for a single moment—the door opens. Centuries of ego, if forgotten for a moment, allow a window to swing open. You can peep through the lattice.

So whenever you have had any taste of joy, it has been because you disappeared. In sexual climax one sometimes disappears and a glimpse comes. Even with alcohol a person can disappear for a while and a glimpse comes.

That is why alcohol is so seductive. All the governments of the world try to prohibit it. Religious leaders keep striving to ban it. Laws are passed. Yet it does not stop. There is a reason. Man is so tired of his ego that he wants to forget. No other means seems at hand; meditation appears difficult, a long journey; there is no trust that one will reach samadhi; and the atmosphere that could carry one to samadhi has been lost. But alcohol is available. For a little while a man drinks.

I am not telling you to drink. I am saying only this: even with alcohol, what happens is that for a little while your I-ness is blurred. You have found a very costly method—poisoning the body to forget the ego. Ego can be forgotten without poisoning yourself. Forget the ego and nectar begins to pour—there is no need to pour in poison. It is a bad bargain. You lose much and gain nothing.

Still, I will tell you: the attraction of alcohol is the very taste of losing the ego. You see a sad, weary man drink—and he becomes jaunty, walks with a swagger!

A soldier used to drink. His general was tired of warning him. One day he called him in and said, “You fool, you’ll remain a soldier all your life if you keep drinking. Had you not drunk, by now you’d have become a captain. If you stop today, I assure you you’ll retire at least as a colonel.” The man laughed: “Oh, leave it. When I drink, I’m already a general! Who are you trying to persuade?”

When a man drinks he forgets what he is. For a little while he is free. But it is a costly, dangerous bargain—selling your soul for a few drops of taste. It is like this: give a dog a bone and he sucks it, feeling great flavor. But the bone has no juice. The bone abrades the gums and mouth; blood starts to flow. He enjoys the taste—his own blood—and imagines it comes from the bone. Forgive the dog; how should he know where it comes from? He sees nothing—he sucks the bone and blood flows. He delights in the taste sliding down his throat. He drinks his own blood, making new wounds, and thinks, “It comes from the bone.” Even a dry bone he will not let go.

The pleasure of alcohol is like that. Yet there is a little truth in it: for a while you forget yourself. And I say, alcohol will not vanish from the world until we create higher intoxications. Alcohol will remain until people can drink the wine of meditation. Alcohol will remain until the wine of the divine becomes available. When temples turn into taverns of the Beloved’s wine, only then will taverns close; before that, no law will work.

Those who try to stop it drink themselves—that’s the irony. They get so exhausted trying to ban it that they too need a little oblivion! The politician also needs to forget himself a bit. Imagine his trouble—running all day, fake smiles, face stretched, hands folded to everyone, swallowing a thousand insults, rotten tomatoes and shoes hurled—and still smiling with folded hands! And great problems with impossible promises; nothing can be solved, yet it is on these promises he arrived at power. At night, if he doesn’t drink, what should he do!

Man wants to forget himself. In forgetting there is a certain joy. But why forget through alcohol? Is that true forgetting? That is to fall below the human. We teach the higher wine.

Learn the art of letting the ego lapse. Instead of pouring alcohol inside, take the ego out and set it aside. For a little while—half an hour, an hour—give the ego twenty-three hours; beg its pardon for one hour. For one hour be without ego—be a nobody, a nothing. This is meditation. In this nothingness, gradually the boundaries of the person dissolve and the formless descends. Exactly where your border blurs, the formless enters.

So for the experience of bliss the person is not at all necessary, because bliss is not the experience of a person. What happens in the absence of the person—that is bliss. Where you are not, there is bliss. Where you are, there is hell. Where you are, there is suffering. Yes, because of this suffering you keep expecting future bliss, you keep aspiring. You live in hell and keep planning heaven. That, from beginning to end, is your life story. You are in pain, and to cut it you fantasize pleasure: tomorrow, the day after—sometime! “There is delay, not darkness; someday it will happen. Someday the Lord will look at me! Someday the fruit will come! My waiting won’t be futile! My prayer won’t be empty! My efforts will bear result—if not today, then tomorrow. Endure the pain today; tomorrow is joy!” Thus the mind consoles you. This is your ego.

And whenever true joy happens, it does not happen tomorrow; it happens today. But if something is to happen here and now, there is only one way: set the ego aside. Ego becomes a journey in time. Set it aside and the journey into the open sky begins. As I said before, it is not a matter of action, not a matter of thought. The sky is available here and now. Just step aside from old habit-patterns and look.

You are not; only the Divine is. You have assumed yourself into being. That assumption has become your prison.

Revolution is only freedom from assumption; nothing factual has to change—one false notion must be dropped. It’s like this: you believe two and two make five. Now you are in trouble, because they don’t. You have kept your entire ledger by that sum. You fear you’ll have to rewrite all the books. But unless you rewrite them, you will keep adding the same way and the ledgers will only grow. This is the web of karma: having taken two and two to be five. The instant you see two and two are four, revolution happens. You have assumed yourself to be the doer—this is the delusion. You have assumed, “I am”—this is the delusion. Search and see—are you?

When Bodhidharma went to China, the emperor said, “I am very restless, Master. Please show me the way to peace.” Bodhidharma was a strange sannyasin. He said, “You want peace? Truly?” The emperor felt a bit uneasy—what kind of question is this? “I’ve told you I am restless; show me the way!” Bodhidharma said, “Come at three in the morning. Come alone. And be sure to bring your restlessness—don’t come empty-handed.” The emperor thought, “This man seems mad—‘bring your restlessness, don’t come empty-handed,’ and in the middle of the night, alone! He carries a big staff; who knows what he will do in that solitude!”

He couldn’t sleep all night, yet he felt drawn; there was a certain radiance around this man, a certain vibration. Just sitting near him brought a sense of festival. “What can he do at most—strike me a couple of times? Let me try; perhaps he will do it. No one has ever answered like this. He has promised, ‘Bring it and I’ll silence it.’ Let me see.”

Hesitant, afraid, he came. Bodhidharma sat in the dark with his staff. “So, you’ve come! Have you brought your restlessness?” “Forgive me,” said the emperor, “what kind of talk is this—‘Have you brought it’? Is restlessness a thing?” “Then what is it?” asked Bodhidharma. “Before I can silence it, I should at least know what I am to silence!”

The emperor said, “It’s all mental commotion, the web of mind.” Bodhidharma said, “Good. Sit down, close your eyes, and search within. The moment you find restlessness, catch hold of it and tell me, ‘I’ve found it.’ I’ll silence it at once.” And he sat there with the staff. The emperor closed his eyes and began to search, peering into every corner. Nowhere could he find restlessness. The more he searched, the calmer he became—because where is restlessness? It is an assumption. You cannot find it. The sun rose. Hours passed. In the morning light Emperor Wu’s face bloomed like a lotus.

Bodhidharma said, “Enough—open your eyes. If you found it, say so; if you didn’t, say so.” The emperor fell at his feet: “I cannot find it. The more I search, the more I become peaceful. What miracle have you done?” Bodhidharma said, “One more question: when you went within and searched so deeply, did you find yourself?” “That too was nowhere to be found,” said the emperor. “The deeper the search, the more I found nothing—only a silent void.”

Bodhidharma said, “Then never raise this question again. I have made you peaceful. Whenever restlessness catches you, look within to see where it is. And whenever the ego catches you, look within to see where it is. Search—you will never find it. You have only believed.”

You are not. Your being is a misunderstanding. Only the Divine is. Because of your misunderstanding, what is, is not seen—and what is not, appears.

I understand your question. A fear arises: “I came to be peaceful and blissful, and you say, ‘Disappear!’ Then what is the point? If I am gone, who will be peaceful? Who will be blissful?” Your question is logical. But the truth is: your not-being is what peace is. No one becomes peaceful, and no one becomes blissful. “Being blissful” and “someone being” are not two separate things. When you are not, bliss is. When you are not, peace is.

If you insist, “I want a peace in which I too remain,” you will remain unpeaceful; you can never be peaceful. If you insist, “I want bliss while remaining as I am,” you will never be blissful—then be content with suffering and stop seeking bliss. If you say, “I want to remain and realize God,” do not fall into this delusion. This net is not for you; it won’t happen. Love’s lane is exceedingly narrow—two do not fit: either you remain or God.

“Wandering in wonder, O friend, Kabir himself got lost.”
As long as I was, You were not. Now You are, I am not. This is the great delight! When I search within, there is no trace of Kabir—where has he gone? Wandering in wonder, he is lost.

Only one can be. And let me say something that may sound strange: no person has ever known God as a person. No one has ever “encountered” God. Who would encounter? The very one who would encounter is the obstacle. The moment you vanish, the Divine appears. Because you are, God cannot be.

A woman came to me and asked, “If I meditate, will there be any obstacle in my married life?” Then, realizing the question sounded odd, she corrected herself, “No, no—why should there be an obstacle! I’m only meditating; I’m not going to drink alcohol. I’m not doing anything bad—why should there be trouble!”

I said, “You are mistaken. Obstacles will come. From drinking, perhaps not; from meditation, certainly.”

She was startled. She asked, “What do you mean? It isn’t something bad, is it?”

I said, “From doing ‘bad’ things obstacles seldom come in this way. This is the complexity of the human mind. If the husband drinks, the wife is not so troubled, because she feels bigger than him, above him—and she enjoys it. She scolds him, tries to ‘reform’ him—there’s great pleasure in reforming someone. Who doesn’t enjoy it! She talks about him before others, makes him hang his head in shame. Wherever they go, the husband shuffles along, tail tucked in. The wife becomes the master. What more is needed! But if the husband begins to meditate, trouble arises—because he starts to rise above you. And if the wife begins to meditate, the obstacle is deeper still, because for a man it is almost inconceivable that a woman could go ahead!

Have you seen—men don’t marry women taller than themselves. Why? What’s the obstacle there? No man can bear a woman being taller. If he cannot bear physical height, how will he tolerate a little spiritual height! People look for wives shorter than themselves—shorter in every way. A man also dislikes a wife more educated than himself; he looks for someone less educated—only then can he remain ‘the lord of the house.’ Otherwise it becomes difficult: the ‘uneducated god’ and the educated maidservant—there will be trouble! Obstacles will come.

If a wife gains a little momentum in meditation—or a husband—whoever moves in meditation, the other, who is left behind, begins to feel the friction. You agreed to live with one kind of person; you married a person of a certain sort. Then he begins to meditate—this is something new. You did not marry a meditating husband. You did not marry a meditating wife. Something new has entered. It will rock the relationship; there will be obstacles.

A wife once told me, “I can tolerate everything else; but my husband no longer gets angry—that I cannot bear.” You will be surprised—it sounds upside down. She should be happy. But understand human psychology. She said, “It makes me anxious, very restless; earlier, when he got angry, at least he seemed natural. Now he sits there like a Buddha. I am banging my head, and he just sits like a Buddha. I boil, but it has no effect on him. It feels a little inhuman. It seems love is gone. If there is no anger, what kind of love can there be!”

She said, “How will love be now? He has gone cold! What have you done to him? Bring a little warmth back. He’s going cold. He has no taste for anger, nor now for sex.”

I hear from many couples: as soon as the husband starts meditating, naturally his interest in sex lessens. Women, who earlier—generally—had little interest in sex, now suddenly… Often women don’t, because even there they gain a certain pleasure: they can put the husband down—“What filth are you wallowing in! Because of you I have to be dragged into it.” Every woman enjoys that a little. Inwardly she may want it; outwardly she shows she is chaste and saintly: “If you drag me, I get dragged; otherwise it’s filth.” So women get dragged into sex like a corpse—and then take delight in blaming the husband, showing him as lower.

But as soon as I see the husband gaining a little momentum in meditation and his lust loosening, the wives launch an attack. The very same wives who had told me, “Somehow free us from sex; our husbands come to you, they listen—but this daily sex, it’s filth!”—those very women then insist that sexual satisfaction must be daily. They feel a danger: “The husband is going away, he is slipping out of my hands. If he is completely free of sex, he will be free of the wife too. Then I have no value left.” So obstacles arise.

I know Manju. Her progress is certainly happening. But this is the difficulty. Your husband or your family will not accept your growth. To accept your growth means the defeat of their ego. They will deny it.

Did Meera’s family accept Meera? They sent her a cup of poison—“Let her die, she’s becoming a cause of disgrace.” A woman of a royal family, and in Rajasthan, where no one comes out of the veil—she threw away all notions of propriety! Dancing in the streets, meeting beggars, sitting with sadhus and saints. The family was distressed and upset. They could not see growth; they saw craziness. “She has gone mad!”

Jesus went to his village only once. Returning, he told his disciples, “There is no point in going there.” The villagers would not accept that the carpenter’s boy had suddenly become the Son of God. “Oh, stop it—go herd someone else! Tell these tales to someone else!” The villagers would not listen. And you can understand their side too: the one they had seen sawing and splitting wood, working in his father’s shop, making chests—suddenly the Son of God… Joseph’s son becomes God’s son just like that! Whom are you trying to convince! Convince someone else. They wouldn’t listen.

When Buddha returned to his town, even his father was unwilling to accept that he had attained enlightenment. The father said, “Enough—drop this nonsense. I know you from childhood. I begot you. Your blood is my blood. My bones are in your bones. I know you well. Stop this rubbish, leave these useless things. It’s enough—come back home. I am your father; the door of my heart is still open for you. I will forgive you, though what you’ve done is an unforgivable offense—abandoning your old father, leaving your wife, leaving your son! You were the apple of our eye!”

Buddha is standing there, and the father is saying this! Think a little—what is the matter? Is the father blind? The obstruction is in his seeing. Others can see; he cannot. Ego is a great barrier. How can a father accept that the son has gone ahead! If he accepts it, a great revolution happens within him.

Very few are so humble that they can see those near them going ahead—and accept it.

So yes, progress is happening. It is because of this progress that they are troubled. If there were no progress, they would stop abusing me—what would be the point of abusing me! I have done them no harm. But they can see that the wife is rising higher, becoming finer. This is intolerable.

The abuses they hurl at me are very telling. They are taking revenge on me for the blows to their ego. Though in truth I have nothing to do with them.

As long as they abuse, listen to their abuse in silence, and keep meditating. Their abuses will cease the very day goodwill arises in them, their eyes open, and they see that something has changed. But that is not in your hands. And do not, even by mistake, try to explain it to them. The more you try to explain, the harder it will be for them to understand. Drop the idea altogether. It is their affair. Pay no attention to their abuses, and don’t relish them either. Keep doing what you are doing. Let what is happening, happen. Do not try—even by mistake—to win them over or to bring them to me. The more you try to bring them, the more difficult it will become; the more their ego will block the way.

A woman came and told me—she’s from Poona—she said, “My husband says, ‘Don’t you dare go listen to him. Whatever you want to ask, ask me!’ He throws away your books. He won’t allow your picture in the house.”

This is understandable. The husband must feel, “Things are going off track. She has started listening to someone else!” And understand the wife’s bind too: a wife asking her husband questions! Even if the husband were truly wise—he might be!—still, a wife asking her husband questions is hardly possible! And the husband cannot tolerate that his wife, while he is there, should ask someone else!

These are the webs of ego. But you can make use of all this. Even these abuses can become flowers on your path, if you accept them peacefully. Do not be agitated by them. Do not be disturbed. Take it as natural.

Your husband had such possession over you; that possession has slipped. He had proprietorship; that proprietorship has gone. He wants you not to come here to listen to me. He wants you not to meditate. But you do not listen to the husband—you listen to me. You meditate. He feels the hold is gone. So he is angry with me. Because of whom the hold slipped—if he does not abuse that man, what should he do! If he can do nothing else, at least let him have the indulgence of abusing! Do not quarrel over it.

Even the mistakes of love are favorable to me.
Flowers, when they come, only stop and entice;
thorns, at every moment, push me forward.
On this path even the thorns are on my side—
even love’s mistakes are favorable to me.

These abuses too, if you wish, can be turned to your favor.

Thorns push me forward at every step;
flowers, when they come, only stop and seduce.
Stones turn into steps, if you accept them.

The sting in love too is sweet.
I know the beloved’s city is far,
yet the heart must be tested one day.
Even the weariness of love’s path is sweet—
the sting on love’s path too is sweet.

Fire did not concede the barrier of mountain and forest;
the body’s wall is melting, its blaze dying down nearby.
At love’s door even the burning is sweet—
on love’s path even the sting is sweet.

This path of prayer, love, devotion, meditation, of the Divine—on it there will be many kinds of jealousy; you will face many fires. Pass through them rejoicing, dancing, humming a song, and everything will turn into a support. Do not ever imagine that the path of sadhana is strewn only with flowers. Flowers come only sometimes; mostly it is thorns. And as the ultimate hour draws near, the tests grow more intense and deep. In the final ordeal, the trials close in like a noose around the neck. The one who remains unshaken even then—serene in that moment too, silent, filled with awe and gratitude—only that one attains the vision of the Beloved.

Hari Om Tatsat!