Maha Geeta #46

Rasa is not a waystation; rasa is the destination. For this the Upanishads say: Raso vai sah! The Lord’s very name is Rasa—rasa-rupa! To be immersed in rasa is the supreme state.
The questioner has asked: rasa, virasa and sva-rasa... Perhaps where ‘rasa’ is said, it should be ‘para-rasa’. Para-rasa is a stop on the way. Then when boredom arises from para-rasa, there is virasa. Virasa too is a stop. But virasa is a negative state; it is a reaction to para-rasa. So no one can remain in virasa; no one can stay in vairagya. If one cannot abide even in raga, how will one abide in vairagya! If one cannot settle in the affirmative, how will one settle in the negative! If one cannot be held by bhoga, how will yoga hold him!
When boredom arises out of para-rasa, when one experiences, “No, happiness does not come from the other; in fact, from the other only sorrow comes,” then revulsion is born. Dispassion arises; virasa sets in. A bitter taste spreads in the mouth. Nothing seems to have any savor. Virasa is a stop on the way—like a dark night: negative, empty.

When someone slowly, slowly sinks into virasa, then sva-rasa is born. Sva-rasa is better than para-rasa. To relish one’s own being is more liberating. At least the dependence on the other is gone. When the other is not, hetero-dependence is not. When the self appears, freedom appears. So much freedom is gained. But it is still a stop. Now, if even the self is lost and only rasa remains, the final attainment has happened; the destination has arrived. For as long as the self is, somewhere near the shore the “other” will also be standing, because the “I” does not remain without “thou.” The very awareness of the self shows that awareness of the other is still intact. The definition of the self cannot be made without the other. As long as it feels “I am,” it naturally also feels that there is another, the other is. So this is but the shadow of the other.

Self and other are two sides of the same coin—together they stay, together they go. So at first sva-rasa gives great joy. In para-rasa there was only the hope of pleasure; it was not found. Virasa was a reaction. Because nothing was obtained in para-rasa, in anger you moved to the opposite; you became resentful. It was simply sulking. It was anger. It is not a state one can abide in; it is a negative state.

In sva-rasa there are a few glimpses of Rasa itself. You have come close to the temple of the Divine; you are almost standing on the steps. Para-rasa is like standing with your back toward God. Virasa is that, having your back to God, anger arises; you begin to try to turn your face toward God; the endeavor to face Him has begun. Sva-rasa is that you have reached the steps. But the self must be left right there on the steps, where you leave your shoes—right there. Then there is entry within. Then there is entry into the temple. The name of the temple is: Raso vai sah! The name of the temple is: Rasa! There, neither self is nor other; there is only One. There are not two.

This very state Ashtavakra has called swacchanda—utterly free. It is free of the other and free of the self. Its rhythm is altogether different. It is something supermundane. When one must speak, some words have to be used. Therefore Buddha called it nirvana—nothing remains. Whatever you knew, nothing remains. All that was known to you has gone; the doors of the Unknown have opened. Your language is of no use. Therefore, regarding nirvana, Buddha remains silent; he says nothing.

A Christian missionary, Stanley Jones, was quite famous—world-famous. He had gone to meet Ramana Maharshi. Years later I too happened to meet him. He spoke with Ramana Maharshi. Stanley Jones is an intelligent man. He has written many books, and in the Christian world he is a big name. But that name is of cleverness; it is not of any self-experience. He began to ask Ramana Maharshi the sort of questions one ought not to ask. And the answers Ramana gave did not come within his grasp. For instance, he asked, “Have you arrived?” Ramana Maharshi said, “Where is there to arrive, where to come, where to go!” Stanley Jones again asked, “Answer my question! Have you arrived? Have you attained?” Ramana Maharshi again said, “Who would attain, and what would he attain! Only That is. There is no attainer and nothing to be attained.”

Stanley Jones said, “Look, you are evading my question. I tell you that I have attained, ever since I found Jesus. I have attained. You speak straight.”

Then Ramana Maharshi said: “If you have attained it, it will be lost; because whatever is obtained is lost. With whom there is union, from that there is separation. With whom there is marriage, from that there is divorce. With birth there is death. If you have gotten it, someday you will lose it. Attain That which cannot be attained.”

Stanley Jones thought this was all nonsense. What kind of talk is this—“attain that which cannot be attained”! Then what is the meaning of attaining? Then he himself began to lecture Ramana Maharshi.

Many years later I too met him. A family, a Christian family interested in me, had Stanley Jones as their guest. So they arranged that the two of us should meet. It was quite a coincidence that Stanley Jones asked the same question again: “Have you attained?” I said, “This is a bother. I will give the same answer again.” He said, “Which answer?”—for he had by then forgotten. I said, “What attainment, whose attainment, who is there to attain!” Then he remembered, laughed, and said, “So do you also talk the way Ramana Maharshi did? I had gone to meet him, but nothing of substance happened. Time was wasted. It would have been better to meet Mahatma Gandhi; the talk was neat and clear. It would have been better to meet Sri Aurobindo; the talk was neat and clear.”

There is something that can never be neat and clear. Precisely that is the thing that cannot be made neat and clear. What is neat and clear is nothing worth doing. That which fits within the understanding of the intellect is not worth understanding. That which remains beyond the intellect, only that...

Para-rasa can be understood, virasa can be understood, and even sva-rasa can be understood; for all three lie within the intellect’s domain. Sva-rasa is on the borderline; from there the flight beyond the intellect begins. Virasa is near the periphery; para-rasa is way out. But all three are within the same circle—the circle of the intellect. Rasa is transcendence. In Rasa, no one remains.

Such a moment comes now and then in your life—at moments of love, or of prayer, or of meditation. If you have a deep love with someone, sometimes such an exalted peak arises within that neither the lover remains nor the beloved remains. Then Rasa ripens. Then Rasa showers. That Rasa is the Rasa of the Divine. Hence in love the first ray of the experience of God descends; or in some deep absorption of meditation, where the distinction of self and other dissolves and the sky of nonduality opens—there too, God showers.
The questioner has asked rightly, but about rasa… He asks: Are rasa, virasa, and sva-rasa merely stages? Rasa is not a stage. Rasa is the source—and the final destination as well. For the ultimate destination can only be that which has also been the source. In the end we return to the source. The circle of life is completed. We come back to where we had started. Or, if you can understand, we come to where we never set out from. We arrive where we never left. We become what we are.
I am shrouded in darkness, yet I thirst for light;
I have faith in the power of love.
Let at least two drops of your tenderness fall;
today, once again, light the extinguished lamp.
Tomorrow I will cleave the night and move ahead,
tomorrow I will battle the storm-winds of destruction;
but today, shelter me in your mantle—
today, once again, light the extinguished lamp.

The lamp has not gone out—it has never gone out—and it is safe. The Divine’s mantle is protecting it. Your love, your oil, has never been exhausted. That is your very aliveness; that is your warmth. Your lamp is brimming. There is no need to ignite the flame, nor to refill the oil; only, you are standing with your back to your own light. What is present is simply not being seen. Or you sit with eyes closed, and the radiance that is showering on every side cannot touch you. It is a matter of lifting the eyelids.

Someone asked Buddha, “What is the difference between the wise and the ignorant?” Buddha said, “Only an eyelid’s worth.”
Do you hear? Only an eyelid’s worth! The eyelid drops—ignorance. The eyelid opens—wisdom. That is all the difference. When you awaken within, everything is exactly as it should be.

You are not darkness-filled; you are luminous! You are already full of rasa. You are an ocean of rasa—not a mere pitcher. The pitcher is what you have taken yourself to be because of the body. You are an ocean of rasa, without any boundary, spreading into the infinite—that very Brahman are you! Tat tvam asi! Raso vai sah!

The great Tibetan saint Milarepa was lying on his deathbed. There was great pain in the body. A curious seeker asked, “Master! Are you feeling sorrow, are you in pain?” Milarepa opened his eyes and said, “No, but there is suffering.” Understand? Milarepa said: No, suffering is not happening to me, but there is suffering. It is not that there is no suffering; nor is it that it is happening. Suffering stands there, encircling on all sides, and yet it is not happening. Inside, someone untouched, beyond, far away, is awake and watching.

A knower is not pierced by sorrow. It does occur. If a thorn enters the foot, even a Buddha comes to know. A Buddha is not unconscious. He knows more than you, because a Buddha is absolutely alert. There is such silence there that even a falling needle will be heard. In your marketplace, perhaps a needle falls and you won’t even know. You are rushing toward the shop; a thorn may enter and you might not notice—this can happen. A Buddha is not running anywhere. There is no shop. If a thorn pierces, it will be known more clearly than by you. A line drawn on a blank sheet! Your paper is smeared, dirty; draw a line on it and it won’t be noticed—there are already a thousand lines on it. On a pristine white cloth even a tiny stain is visible; on a black cloth it is not. The stain does fall on black as well, but it is not seen.

In your life there is so much suffering that you have turned blackened by it. You don’t even notice the small pains. Have you observed this? If you want to be free of a small pain, create a bigger one—the small won’t be noticed. Suppose you have a headache and someone says, “Why sit there with a headache? Hey, your shop is on fire!” You run—and forget the pain. The headache is gone! No aspirin needed. The shop is on fire—is this a time for a headache? You will forget.

Bernard Shaw wrote that he felt as if he had a heart attack and got frightened. He phoned the doctor at once and lay down on the bed. The doctor came, panting up the stairs, sat on a chair, and suddenly clutched his own heart. “I’m dying! I’m finished!” Frightened, Bernard Shaw jumped up from the bed. He forgot his own supposed heart attack. He ran, brought water, fanned the doctor, wiped his sweat. He simply forgot. Five or seven minutes later, when the doctor was fine, he said, “My fee.” Bernard Shaw said, “Should I charge you, or you charge me?” The doctor said, “This was your treatment. I created a bigger tangle for you; you forgot your heart attack. There was nothing to it—this was theater, a joke I played, and it cured you.” Bernard Shaw used to joke with many people in life. This doctor joked just right. Bernard Shaw sat laughing. He said, “That’s a good one. It’s true—I forgot. For those five–seven minutes I didn’t remember at all. It must have been imagination.”

If a big pain arises, the small is forgotten. There are incidents on record, scientifically tested, where a man who had been paralyzed for ten years found his house on fire and ran out. For ten years he had not even risen from the bed. When he got outside and people saw him, they said, “What! This can’t be! You’ve been paralyzed for ten years.” On hearing this, the man fell down again. But he had walked out—he had forgotten the paralysis.

Most of your illnesses are illnesses only because you have nothing else to keep you occupied. The small ailments don’t enter your attention; a big ailment occupies you. When the house is on fire, the paralysis is forgotten. If an even bigger calamity comes, even the house on fire is forgotten.

An awakened one has no entanglement, no occupation—only pure consciousness. Even the fall of a tiny needle makes a sound as if bands were playing. Sensitivity is so keen; in proportion to that is the knowing! And yet the awakened one is not unhappy. Suffering happens, but he is not a sufferer. We become unhappy when we identify with suffering. A headache happens—this too is known to a Buddha; but “my head is aching”—that is what you know. A headache happens—this too is known to a Buddha; because a head is a head, whether yours or a Buddha’s. And if there is pain in the head, whether it is you or a Buddha, both will know. But you identify instantly. You say, “my head!” For the Buddha there is nothing like “mine.” “This body is me”—not so. So when pain arises in the body, it is known.

This needs a little understanding.
The body is real and the soul is real; the mind is a delusion. A buddha is aware of the body’s pain, because the body is real. And the soul never suffers; the soul abides in eternal bliss—sat-chit-ananda. The mind is a deception. How does the mind arise? The mind is born from identification. You say, “This is my body”—the mind is born. You say, “This is my house”—the mind is born. You say, “This is my wife”—the mind is born. You say, “This is my money”—the mind is born. The mind is born of “mine.” The mind is the aggregate of “my.” Hence in the teachings of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, there is one indispensable point: be free of possessiveness (parigraha). Be free of “mine.” Because until you are free of “mine,” you cannot be free of mind. Remove “mine” and the foundation is gone—the edifice of mind collapses.
You can observe it: the more “mine,” the bigger the mind. As “mine” thins, the mind thins. When you sit on a throne, you carry a big, heavy mind. Step down from the throne, and the mind shrinks, becomes small. That is why it feels so bad to lose position, to lose wealth—because one has to contract. Who likes to shrink! One has to become small; being small feels like humiliation, condemnation, poverty. When your pocket holds money, you feel expanded.
Mulla Nasruddin and a friend were passing through a forest. They had to cross a stream. The friend jumped, fell in the middle and splashed. Mulla leapt and landed across on the far bank. The friend was astonished. “Mulla, you’re older, practically an old man—what a leap! What’s your secret? Were you in the Olympics? Have you practiced? This can’t happen without practice.”
Mulla jingled his pocket. The coins clinked. The friend said, “I don’t get it.”
Mulla said, “If you want a strong leap, you need heat in the pocket. Leaps aren’t for free. Show me your pocket.” The pocket was empty. “No heat—what leap will you make!”
For a leap you need heat. And money gives a great heat.
Have you noticed—when there’s money in your pocket, even in winter you don’t feel the need of a coat; a warmth is there! You pat your pocket and know it’s there, no worry; if you want, you can buy a coat right now. But if the pocket is empty, then even if you don’t actually need a coat, something chafes—you feel poor, destitute, small, powerless; the mind feels broken.
Look closely: the mind grows to the extent your boundaries of possession grow. Renounce “mine,” and the mind is gone. The mind is not a thing. The mind is the name of the illusion that arises when body and soul get mixed up. Mind is a reflection.
Understand it like this: you stand before a mirror. The mirror is real; you are real; but the reflection in the mirror is not real. The soul is in direct encounter with the body. The body’s reflection arises in the soul. If you take that reflection as real, that is mind. If you recognize it is only the body’s reflection—“I am not the body, so how can I be the body’s reflection?”—then there is no mind.
An awakened one has no mind. The state of no-mind is what buddhahood is. Hence Kabir speaks of a-mani dasha—the state of no mind; the state of unmani, bemani—where the mind no longer remains.
Mind is only a notion, an assumption; a lie just like this: the house is real, you are real, but when you say “my house,” that “my” is utterly false. The house was there before you, and it will be there after you are gone. And remember, when you die the house will not weep, “The owner is dead.” The house never even knew that in between you made a lot of noise about being the owner. You were not, the wealth was here; you will not be, the wealth will remain here. “All the display will lie where it was when the caravan moves on.” What remains lying there—your claim on it is false. So the Hindus say: “All land belongs to Gopal.” It all belongs to the Divine; nothing is mine. One who knows that all is God’s and nothing is mine—his mind is gone.
Mind is a disease. Mind is not existential. Mind is only an illusion. You saw a rope on the path and mistook it for a snake and ran; someone brought a lamp, and you saw it as a rope and laughed—that’s how the mind is. Bring a lamp and take a look—the mind is not there. It’s like seeing a snake in a rope—just a mental projection. Mind is a belief.
So awakened ones do not have a mind; the question of mental suffering does not arise. Mental suffering belongs to those whose mind is big—big with “mine.”
See it, understand it. In poor countries, there is no mental disease. In a poor country, the psychologist has no real place. The richer a country, the greater the need for psychologists and psychiatrists. In America the body’s doctor is gradually becoming fewer, the mind’s doctor is increasing. Naturally—because the mind has grown large. Wealth has expanded. The feeling of “mine” has expanded. Today America has a prosperity no nation on earth has ever known. Because of that prosperity the mind has grown. A big mind—big mental disease. Today the situation is such that, they say, about three out of four people are in some way mentally disturbed; the fourth is suspect. Psychologists say: with three it’s certain; the fourth is doubtful, not sure. The truth is, even the psychologist is not certain about himself... I know from experience, because no one else has had as many psychologists become sannyasins with me as I have. Of all professions, the maximum number who have come to me for sannyas are psychologists—therapists, psychoanalysts, psychiatrists. And I know them. They suffer—deeply. They are trying to help others. One drowning man trying to save another. The other might have somehow saved himself; in this gentleman’s company he will drown even more. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes compassion becomes very costly.
I was sitting by a river at dusk. A man was feeding chickpeas to the fish. We two were there, and a boy was swimming near the bank. He drifted out a bit and shouted, “I’m drowning!” The man feeding the fish immediately jumped in. Before I could jump, he had jumped. I thought, since he has jumped, fine. But as soon as he jumped, he started shouting, “Help! Help!” I was amazed. “What’s the matter?” He said, “I don’t know how to swim.” A fine mess! Now two had to be saved. When at last I dragged them both out with difficulty, I asked, “Do you act with any awareness? When you don’t even know how to swim...!” He said, “I forgot. When I saw the boy drowning, I forgot that I don’t know how to swim. It all happened so fast. Seeing him drown, I just jumped.”
But before you jump, at least think whether you know how to swim!
In the West the mind is becoming more and more deranged. There’s a need—many are drowning in mental illness. Many are trying to save them. I’ve observed the lives of the greatest psychologists very closely—I have been astonished! Even Sigmund Freud himself seems mentally unwell, not healthy. The father of psychology! He was so frightened of certain things that if someone mentioned death he would start trembling. What is this! If someone said someone has died... He tried several times to compose himself, but no—twice he even fainted. Just hearing that someone died and he would panic! If death frightens you so much, the mind is deeply sick.
To say the mind is sick is not quite right; mind itself is the sickness. And the more mind expands... In America today the mind has tremendous expansion. With wealth the mind expands. That’s why the mind craves wealth: wealth is a way to expand. The mind’s demand is: expand me, make me big, turn me into a balloon, pump me full of air, bigger and bigger! And as with a balloon that bursts upon reaching a limit, so the mind bursts. That’s madness. You keep enlarging it; a moment comes when the balloon pops.
Therefore I say only very wealthy societies can become religious. When the balloon begins to burst, a person starts to wonder: perhaps there is some other truth. What I took to be truth has burst; it proved to be a bubble on water.
An awakened one has no mind, because he has no “mine,” no “yours,” no “I,” no “you.” Only the essence remains. Duality is gone. With duality, the inner split and conflict also disappear.
Psychologists speak of schizophrenia—man splits within; as if two people have arisen inside one person. You have experienced it too. Most people in the world are schizophrenic. You must have experienced it many times. Your wife was speaking perfectly well, everything was fine; you said something—something she didn’t like—and everything changed. A moment ago she was Lakshmi herself; suddenly she took the form of Durga, became Mahakali! Now she wants to dance on your chest, like Mahakali dances on Shiva’s chest! You are startled: it was a small thing—how did such a transformation happen so fast! This Mahakali is also hidden there. That other half.
With a friend, everything is fine; a small thing happens and the entire friendship is gone for a penny. A lifelong effort gone to waste. A small thing—and enmity. The one who was ready to die for you is ready to kill you. This is schizophrenia. A human being is not reliable, because a human being is not one being; there are many inside—a crowd.
Mind is a crowd. You are many people. And there is no trusting a crowd. In the morning he says, “I love you so much.” Don’t trust it. In the evening the same gentleman may come to hit you with a shoe! Don’t trust it. And it’s not that he is deceiving you when he speaks now; he speaks with his whole heart now—and in the evening he will hit you with his whole heart.
The one you love is the one you hate. And you have never noticed what is happening! The wife without whom you cannot live—you are living with her! You cannot live without her, and when she goes to her mother’s house you start having big dreams! You begin to write beautiful letters. Husbands write such letters to wives in their parents’ home that even the wife is deceived; she starts thinking, “Is this the same man I live with?” When she returns, the illusion will break. She will return and find he is exactly the same gentleman she had left. He had become a poet for a while, romantic, flying in the sky! And it’s not that he was writing lies; while he was writing, he was truthful. That was also one part of his mind. As soon as the wife returns, that part departs; another part appears.
The one you love is the one you hate. The one with whom you have friendship, with that very one you have enmity. Such is the duality. In this duality man is miserable. And gathering up these contradictions and somehow carrying them is a great ordeal. That is why you are so harassed. You have to carry along all this junk and clutter. One horse pulls this way, one that way. Someone drags you back, someone pulls you forward. Someone pulls your leg, someone your arm. What a mess! It is a wonder how you somehow keep yourself together in the midst of this!
Sigmund Freud has written that it is a wonder that all people are not mad—they should be! Looking at the condition of the human mind, everyone should be mad. How a few manage to hold themselves together and are not mad—that is the miracle.
Awakened ones have no mind; therefore there is no cause for mental suffering.

These two incidents from Ramakrishna’s life have not been properly understood so far; for those who have interpreted them know nothing of the state of the paramahansa. They have been explained in a commonplace way. When Ramakrishna holds silver in one hand and sand in the other and drops both into the Ganga, we assume that for Ramakrishna silver and earth are the same. Naturally, this becomes the obvious meaning. But if it is truly the case that for Ramakrishna gold and earth, silver and earth are the same, then why not put earth in both hands and drop them? Why put silver in one hand? There must be some difference, some slight distinction. No, that explanation is not right.

For Ramakrishna there is no distinction whatsoever. And even the act of dropping is meaningless for Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna is not a renunciate (viragi); he is beyond both attachment and renunciation (vitaragi). For a renunciate it is all right to say, “Earth and silver are the same; for me all is the same; even gold is mere dust.” That is the language of the renunciate. Ramakrishna is vitaragi; that cannot be the language of a paramahansa. Then why does Ramakrishna do this? He must be doing it for those around him. It is a message for them. One who is caught in attachment must first be taught renunciation; one who has come to renunciation must then be taught vitaragata. One has to walk step by step. And Ramakrishna used to say, one must pass through every experience.

You will be quite surprised; let me tell you an episode from his life. Perhaps you have never even heard it, because his devotees do not discuss it much. It is a bit awkward.

One day Ramakrishna said to Mathuranath—one of his devotees—“Listen, Mathura, tell no one: last night a dream arose in my mind that I am wearing beautiful, precious silk garments, sitting propped up on cushions, and bubbling away at a hookah. And as I puffed at the hookah I saw a splendid gold ring on my hand, set with a diamond. Now you will have to arrange all this, because if such a dream has arisen there must be a desire within me. It has to be fulfilled; otherwise this desire will distract me. I will have to come back in the next life to puff at a hookah. So make the arrangements, and tell no one. People will not understand.”

Mathura was utterly mad in his devotion to him. He said, “All right.” He went and secretly arranged everything. He bought a precious diamond-studded ring, a magnificent Lucknowi hookah, the most exquisite silk garments. And on the bank of the Ganga behind the ashram he laid out cushions and bolsters, and Ramakrishna sat there regally, slipped the ring onto his finger, tucked the hookah at his side and began to puff. From behind a bush Mathura hid and watched to see what would happen! Ramakrishna kept looking at the ring and said, “Yes, it is exactly that. Look well, Ramakrishna, look at it properly. And enjoy it thoroughly, dear one, otherwise you will have to come again.” He touched the cloth and said, “Ramakrishna, look carefully, otherwise you will have to come back for this very cloth. Enjoy it!” He puffed at the hookah and said, “Ramakrishna, take a good puff!” This went on for a minute or two, perhaps five at the most.

Then, laughing out loud, he stood up, threw the ring into the Ganga, broke the hookah, spat on it and jumped upon it, and tore up the clothes. Mathura was alarmed: “Now what madness is this?” It was madness enough already—this puffing at a hookah. If anyone were to find out, no one would even believe it! If I were puffing at a hookah, people might accept it—who knows with me. But Ramakrishna puffing a hookah—even if Mathura were to tell anyone, no one would believe it. And now what is happening! He even picked up the cushions and bolsters and flung them into the Ganga. Stripped nearly bare, he tore up all the clothes and called out to Mathura, “Finished! Now there is no need ever to come again. I have seen; there is no substance in it.”

Ramakrishna’s point was: whatever mood or desire arises, bring it to completion. Ramakrishna did not teach escapism. Renunciation was not his teaching. He would say, if you are in attachment, then live it through knowingly—but keep remembering: no one has ever been fulfilled by attachment.

So this reminiscence of taking silver and earth together and dropping them into the Ganga—whoever he did it before, for that person there was a certain indication in it. It does not reveal the state of Ramakrishna’s consciousness; it is a teaching. And whenever you listen to the teachings of great beings, of the supremely wise, be mindful of to whom they were given! The connection is less with the one who speaks; it is more with the one being addressed. This must have been said for some money-obsessed person. Some money-grabber must have been standing nearby; he did it to awaken him. In Ramakrishna’s inner state, what earth, what gold! There is not even so much distinction that he would need to remind himself by holding gold in one hand and sand in the other. And if Vivekananda put silver coins under his pillow and he groaned in pain, it was a teaching for Vivekananda. A teaching to be alert. A teaching that, “You are going to the West—there the race is all for wealth; do not get lost, do not go astray!”

This groaning in pain was simply a device to imprint a deep samskara on Vivekananda, so that he would remember and not forget: like a sharp slap, the fact that a touch of silver could cause such pain to Ramakrishna would settle in him. Then silver is poison. If he had merely said it, perhaps it would not have gone so deep. He used to say it every day. By hearing it, perhaps it would not have penetrated the heart; but this event must have sat on Vivekananda’s chest like a burning coal. It was a message for Vivekananda. The messages of true masters are very unique.

It is recorded that after Ramakrishna had left the body, Vivekananda was preparing to go West. One day he went to see Sharda, Ramakrishna’s wife, to ask permission and seek her blessing. She was cooking in the kitchen. Even after Ramakrishna’s departure, Sharda continued to cook for him always, because in his last moments Ramakrishna opened his eyes and said, “Where would I go? I will remain right here. Those who have the eye of love will see me. Do not weep, Sharda, for you are not becoming a widow, because I am not dying; I am. I shall remain as I am. The body goes—you were not married to the body!”

So in all of India there has been only one widow, Sharda, who did not break her bangles—because there was no reason to break them. And Sharda did not even cry. She continued to carry on as before. She was a wondrous woman. At the exact time that had been Ramakrishna’s mealtime, she would come and say, “Paramhans Dev, the food is ready; the plate has been set; please come.” Then she would sit by the plate and fan him. Then she would make up the bed, draw the mosquito net and say, “Now please sleep. In the afternoon the satsangis will be coming.” Thus the routine continued.

She was cooking— for the paramhansa, though he had gone. Vivekananda came and said, “Mother, I want to go to the West to spread Paramhans Dev’s message. Do I have your permission? Your blessing?” Sharda said, “Vivekananda, pick up that knife lying there and give it to me.” A vegetable-cutting knife! Ordinarily anyone who hands over a knife keeps the handle in his own hand, but Vivekananda held the blade in his own hand and offered the handle toward Sharda. Sharda said, “No need—put it back. It was only a hint to find something out. You may go.” Vivekananda said, “I did not understand.” Sharda said, “You have my blessing; you may go. I only wanted to see whether there is great compassion in your heart or not. Ordinarily a person keeps the handle in his own hand so that his hand will not be cut, and turns the blade toward the other, saying, ‘Take it—if you get cut, so be it; what is it to me!’ But you held the edge yourself and offered me the handle. That is enough. Go. No one will ever be harmed by you; there will only be benefit.”

Remember: when the master speaks, keep your attention on the disciple, because the master speaks for the disciple. These two incidents are for the disciples. On Ramakrishna’s plane, what difference could it make! Neither is earth earth, nor is gold gold. Earth is earth, gold is earth; earth is gold. All is equal. Where the one flavor has arisen, where all distinctions have been lost, where only the One, the Divine, is seen—then everything is but an ornament fashioned by him.

Ramakrishna abides in the supreme state of vitaragata. He is neither attached nor renunciate—he is beyond both. The very aphorism of Ashtavakra that is being discussed—beyond the colored and the discolored, beyond attachment and detachment—that is where Ramakrishna is.

When I say to you, “Be a witness,” it does not mean I am asking you to remain as you are. Witnessing is transformation. I am not saying that if you become a witness you will not change. Witnessing is the very key to change. If you become a witness, change is bound to happen—but that change will not be the change of an escapist; it will be the change of an aware person.

Understand. If, out of fear, you give up taking bribes because the scriptures warn, “You will rot in hell if you take bribes; you’ll miss the pleasures of heaven,” then that is escapism. And the very reason for which you are renouncing bribery is not superior to bribery itself; it is bribery on a larger scale. You are essentially bribing your way into heaven: “We’ll give it up here, so please grant us entry there.” You are telling God, “See what I’ve done for you; now take care of me.” What else is bribery? “We pray to you”—what is that but a deal?

Watch: a devotee goes to the temple and sings praises—praise is flattery. Even the word “stuti” means flattery. “You are great, we are lowly. You are the purifier of sinners, we are sinners.” You make yourself small, make him big. Whom are you deceiving? This is exactly how you flatter a politician: “You are great! What will become of the country without you? Darkness!” First you inflate him, then present your petition. Then he can’t refuse—such a great man refusing would look bad. He is compelled. Had you asked directly, you would have been thrown out. Flattery wins him over. You do the same with God.

No, this is not better than bribery. It is bribery—only on a grander scale.

This is not my teaching. I say: Wake up! I do not say, “If you take bribes you’ll go to hell,” because nothing there is certain. If bribery works here, it might work there too. If you can grease the devil’s palm, he’ll keep an eye on you—he’ll put you in a slightly cooler cauldron. Or he might assign you to some job—after all, someone has to toss others into the cauldrons—he might make you a volunteer. And who knows, at the gates of heaven… since what is here is there; as it is below, so it is above.

An old Egyptian maxim says: “As above, so below.” I say: As below, so above. There is only one existence—spread out in many forms. So I don’t say, “Quit bribery so you won’t land in hell.” If you truly don’t want hell, then perhaps you should keep practicing bribery—it may come in handy! If you want to secure heaven, pile up a lot of pious coins—they may help.

And your gods, as you read in your Puranas, don’t seem to be in very saintly shape. You expect them to be sages? It doesn’t look like that. The moment a sage grows in stature, Indra’s throne begins to tremble. Curious, isn’t it? Indra panics. There too is competition: “A rival is coming—here comes Jayaprakash Narayan!” Commotion! As it is here, so it seems there. Ascetics are meditating, Indra is anxious. The gods are full of disturbances: one elopes with another’s wife, one deceives another; gods descend to earth to sleep with other men’s wives; even rishis’ wives are seduced while the poor rishis are counting their beads. Have some pity on them! But nobody cares.

Read your Puranas and you’ll see your gods are not different from you; they are only your enlargement. All your drives are present there—none missing. They are greedy for wealth and position, full of desires—what difference remains?

So if you renounce out of fear, you will be in trouble. You will miss here and miss there. I don’t advocate fleeing in fear. I say: There is suffering in bribery—right now. Understand the difference. Not “you will get hell”—hell happens now. There is suffering in theft. Not “in the fruits of theft you will suffer”—stealing itself is suffering. To become a thief is agony, self-disgust, fire. There aren’t cauldrons burning somewhere into which you will be thrown; in stealing you heat your own cauldron and burn in it. Tell a lie—you yourself feel the sting.

Haven’t you noticed—when you speak truth you blossom like a flower; when you lie you are shut into a dark cell. One lie begets ten more. One to protect another, and so on—an endless chain.

Truth has one delight: it is barren—it has no offspring. Truth practices birth control beforehand! Say it once—the matter ends. No descendants. Lies, however, are thoroughly Indian: they produce whole lineages! The father brings forth sons, the sons produce more sons—one big joint family of lies. One lie drags in another; as you are encircled by lies, it becomes hard to get out.

Notice: one lie leads to a bigger one, then bigger still—to cover the last. You get buried under a mountain of lies; you begin to rot.

Get angry and see. When you love, a fragrance arises within you, a music—anklets begin to tinkle—you are in heaven for a moment. When anger arises, you fall into hell.

I say: Heaven and hell are not geographical locations. They are states of your consciousness. Moment to moment you swing between them like a pendulum.

I say: Be a witness, not an escapist. The escapist is driven by greed, attachment, fear. An escapist is one who runs away in fear. A witness is one who awakens into awareness. Wake up and see. Then whatever, in awareness, appears beautiful, true, auspicious—delightful and full of rasa—you will naturally live that. And whatever pricks like a thorn, brings suffering, brings hell—will naturally fall from your hands.

You ask, “You say, ‘Don’t run, wake up. Be a witness.’ But in a job there is bribery, and among relatives there is meat and liquor—one feels like running.”

What will running do? They are your relatives; elsewhere you’ll find others. Where will you go? Do you think only your village has drunkards? Every village has them. Leave one job and take another—there too corruption runs. Where will you run? Running will achieve nothing. Wake up. Who is forcing liquor into your mouth? If you wake up, you simply won’t drink. Have you ever said, “So-and-so insisted so much that I drank poison”? “He was so insistent, I had to.” When you know it’s poison you don’t drink it, no matter who insists. You will say, “Stop this nonsense! Poison?” If in wakefulness liquor appears as poison, who can make you drink? Perhaps your very presence will hinder others from drinking. No one can force you. There is no way.

In this world, stop putting your choices on others. That’s a trick to escape responsibility: “What to do—our relatives eat meat and drink.” No—you want to eat, and you push it onto them. You don’t want to wake up; you say you are compelled.

I tell you: In this world nothing are you doing out of compulsion. You do it because you want to. “Compulsion” is just a strategy—your rationalization: “Given the situation, how else can we live?” So let it not go your way—what will the relatives do? They won’t invite you. Good! You are fortunate. Thank them: “Great kindness—you’ve stopped inviting me.”

If you refuse to take bribes—you may be a little poorer, face some difficulty—fine. I’m not telling you that by being honest God will shower wealth through your roof. Those who tell you such things are lying, and they deceive you—and because of them there is even more dishonesty in the world.

People come to me and say, “We are honest, but the dishonest are enjoying.” I say, Who told you the honest will enjoy? Whoever told you that deceived you. That “enjoyment” is precisely the formula for dishonesty. The dishonest are enjoying! You are honest and you don’t enjoy! What “enjoyment”?

They say, “The dishonest built a big house.” If a big house is your goal, you’re taking the wrong path: you don’t want the pains of dishonesty but you want the big house—while remaining honest! If you are honest, the house will likely be small.

But small houses too have their joys. Who told you joy resides only in big houses? Have you seen people in big houses happy? Rarely. Who told you that great wealth brings happiness? Do emperors sleep peacefully? Are the very wealthy at ease? No. But you look at the outer display. Your heart too is set on these: “Let our house also be big, our car big, heaps of money—and all this honestly, without taking bribes! Let us keep our beads and meditate—and get all the stuff too!” You are asking for the impossible. Then it would be unjust to the dishonest fellow: he suffers the pains of dishonesty, bears its hell, and still can’t build a big house—while you get both honesty’s delight and the big house—sweets in both hands! At least let him have one; he suffers plenty. And let me tell you, he gets less than the pain he endures. What he gets is trash; he sells his soul and gathers garbage.

Your eyes too are on that garbage. You are dishonest at heart—and cowardly too! You won’t dare to be dishonest, yet you want what the dishonest get. You want to be first in a race without running. You say, “Look, I sit here and still don’t come first; those fellows run and come first!” The runners will come first—along with the sweat and strain, the jostle and the grind. You want to sit and come first. You want God to do some miracle—because you didn’t take bribes.

Taking a bribe may be sin; not taking one is not merit. Theft may be sin; not stealing is not merit. Keep this in mind. It is enough that by not stealing you are spared the pains of stealing and the little temptations it brings. You stay out of the mess. Isn’t that enough reward?

When I say “Wake up,” I mean: look at the whole situation of your life squarely. From that seeing, revolution begins. You see that the futile brings suffering—now, here, instantly. Slowly suffering drops away. And when all the sufferings of your life vanish, the veena of bliss begins to play. The veena of joy is already sounding within you. It’s just that the drums of misery you keep beating drown it out—their noise is loud, the inner melody is subtle. The fine nectar is flowing, but around you torrents of sorrow flood so much that the slender stream of rasa goes unnoticed. The ray of the divine within you gets lost in the darkness of your deeds, buried in the night of your ego.

Wake up just a little and revolution will enter your life on its own. You won’t need to abandon relatives, nor run away from your job. That’s my first point. But I am not saying that there will be no transformation. It may happen that, in the wakefulness of witnessing, a longing arises to go to the forest with your whole being. That is not escapism then.

I say: All escapists reach the forest, but not all who reach the forest are escapists. Sometimes someone goes simply out of his nature’s ease—no running away from life, no fear, no hope for rewards of merit. It is the forest’s invitation—the greenery calls, its rasa draws one.

“Krishna Mohammed” is sitting in the back here. He was in Milan, in a big job; he left and came. He is not an escapist; he hasn’t fled from life. When he came here, he was heading for the forest—planning to build a hut somewhere near Panchgani and settle. In between he met me. I said, “Where are you going?” He agreed to stay. Had he been an escapist, he would not have agreed. He said, “Fine. If you command, I’ll stay.” The escapist is stubborn. He was seeking peace. I said, “What will you gain on Panchgani? I am here—this mountain you will rarely find! Stay here; build your hut here.” Not once did he say no—just “Yes, I’ll stay.” He hasn’t run away; a call toward peace arose—an invitation to be quiet.

So I’m not saying that if you become tranquil, a witness, filled with bliss, you must remain at home. You may go. But the quality of that going will be different. Then you are not running from somewhere; you are going to somewhere. Understand the difference. The escapist is fleeing from—his eyes fixed on what he is leaving: home, family, wife, children. But if you are a witness, sometimes the call of the Himalayas comes. Then you are going toward the Himalayas—an irresistible call, impossible to stop. Something draws you; you are not running, you are being drawn. A bridge has been made—a summons has come. If you go in that natural flow, you are blessed. If you run, you will suffer.

I say: If you flee and sit under a tree in the jungle, you’ll soon be watching the road again—for visitors. You won’t be watching for bribe-givers now—you’ll be waiting for devotees who might bring offerings to your feet. The point is the same—offering or bribe. You’ll watch for someone to come and put up a roof—monsoon is near, how will you sit under a tree? And before long someone will arrive with a bottle—because when liquor is prohibited, those who need to fill bottles head for the forests to distill it there. You’ll say, “What a nuisance! Now this gentleman has come with a bottle; now even if I don’t want to drink, courtesy demands I do!” Sadhus will come with ganja and bhang; you’ll start smoking because when a sadhu insists, it’s hard to refuse. If it were anyone else you could say no; but the sadhu packs the chillum and says, “At least take a puff—great bliss! Brahmananda! Why else did God create these things? From Shiva onward, all devotees have used them. Are you greater than Shiva?” The mind yields.

You cannot escape by running—you’ll only do it by waking up. Wakeful—if you don’t go, fine; if you go, fine. Then life has a natural spontaneity.

And I tell you: If you remain awake, you can walk out even from a room filled with soot and not be stained. Soot can only stain the body—and you are not the body; it can soil your clothes—and you are not your clothes. You are such that soot cannot touch you. Your very nature is stainless. You have always been pure-awareness, consciousness itself, formless.

Neither remaining aloof and immovable, nor sitting on the fence, will help.
One lives the Whole—by living it, by bearing it, one is victorious.
Even the sun is not alone—
Do you want more aloneness than that?
Will you maintain neutrality until death?
Shrink yourself and step into the flowing life:
From the ghat to the bazaar,
From the bazaar back to the ghat,
Come and go.
Sing amidst the storm.
Do not sit silently on the shore.
Whether aloof or neutral—it makes no difference.
Shrink yourself and step into the flowing life:
From the ghat to the bazaar,
From the bazaar back to the ghat,
Come and go.
Sing amidst the storm.
Do not sit silently on the shore!

God is singing so many songs—join in. This whole world is his festival, this great vehicle of creation is moving—don’t stand far away; dance, hum, participate. And while participating, remain a witness—that is my teaching. Because being a seer is not affected by anything. If you sit on the bank to be a witness, that witness is weak. What difficulty is there in being a witness while playing with the storm in the current? If witnessing is the goal—why only on the mountain? Why not in the marketplace? If it is only to see and to know “I am the seer,” then whether you see mountains, trees, rivers and waterfalls—or people and shops—what difference does it make? A seer is a seer, whatever he sees. And if you know that all you see is a dream, what obstacle remains?

So it was with Ramana Maharshi: he had a great love for Arunachala. Many times a day he would get up and go to the hill—after breakfast, after lunch, after rest. Sometimes a satsang would be going on and he would say, “Enough!” and go up again. Still, the hill was large—many parts remained unexplored.

One day he told his devotees, “Tomorrow I will fast so I won’t have to return; I will spend all day exploring the hill.” The devotees were troubled; that night they fed him heavily. He protested, “Stop now—tomorrow I have to climb, and you’re stuffing me.” They didn’t listen; he ate. A witness has this quality: he first demurs, then if others insist, he says, “Fine.” In the morning, as he set out, one devotee had hidden with snacks on the path. He caught Ramana’s feet and said, “I have brought breakfast.” Ramana said, “This is too much! I want to walk, and you will delay me.” “Quickly, Swami!” He ate and went on. A little farther, five or seven women arrived: “Here is our Master!” “What is this?” “We brought lunch.” “This is too much! To hurt them would be unkind—they must have been waiting since early morning.” He ate. The women said, “Don’t worry—we’ll return at noon with more.” He said, “Don’t come; I’ll be far away—you won’t find me.” “One of us will trail you.” One woman followed. “This too is trouble!” They found him at noon and fed him again. Now he was in such a state he could hardly walk—couldn’t even reach where he usually did. Somehow he returned; the ashram had prepared a feast to welcome him back. He said, “I swear I will never fast again—fasting is too expensive!” And, they say, he never fasted again. “I swore—fasting is costly; my ordinary way of eating was better.”

Such is the state of a witness: whatever happens, happens. If he fasts, there is no stubbornness. Had it been you, you would have thundered, “Do you know who I am? You dare break my fast? These are not women—they’re apsaras sent by Indra!” You’d stand rigid, do a headstand, close your eyes: “Don’t touch me; I am fasting!” Ramana said: They are poor women—so early—let it be.

The witness watches as things unfold. Ramana developed cancer on his arm. The ashram doctor was not very competent. He took him to the bathroom and performed a surgery right there. Ramana said, “At least investigate what it is.” “Just a small lump,” he said, and cut it out. A bigger lump grew; there was sepsis. A village doctor came and operated. Then doctors from Madras, then Calcutta—operations for a year; four or five surgeries. Ramana kept saying, “Let nature follow its process. Why are you so intent?” But who listens? They said, “You keep quiet! God, you keep quiet—these doctors know.” “Fine,” he said. After a year of cutting him up, the doctors gave up: “Nothing can be done.” Ramana laughed: “I told you before—you troubled yourself for nothing. What can man do? What happens, happens. Let it.”

Moments before dying, someone asked, “Will you return?” Ramana said, “Go where? When did I come, that I should go? All my life I have told you: the Self neither comes nor goes.”

In witnessing, no act has any ultimate value. It can even happen that, in witnessing, someone drinks alcohol and nothing is affected. I am not telling you to drink; I am saying that in the ultimate sense, even that would not touch the witness. But keep your eye on witnessing; otherwise you will rationalize, “We are witnesses—let’s drink!” As long as there is the desire to drink, you have not become a witness. Witnessing means: whatever happens, we allow it to happen and we watch. We are the seeing, not the doing. The escapist becomes the doer.

Moonlight spreads across the sky, longing in the heart;
By day there is one world for all,
By night each has a world of his own.
Now imagination begins to trace a path in the heart—
Moonlight spreads across the sky, longing in the heart.
Shall I tell you the strength in my feet?
Shall I tell you what my strides can measure?
Place a few aims upon my path!
Fill my eyes again with waiting today!
I will tear through forest thickets, cross the desert without water;
Even if seven seas lie before me, I will swim across—
Just give me a slight signal with your eyes!
Fill my eyes again with waiting today!
I will recognize my own path,
I will know from where the redness rises.
Take away the blackness from my eyes!
Fill my eyes again with waiting today!

If just a little of the eye’s soot is wiped away, you have become a witness.

Just give me a slight signal with your eyes!
Fill my eyes again with waiting today!

If a little waiting for the Beloved begins to shine in your eyes, you have become a witness. As long as you desire objects, you will remain a doer. When you begin to wait for the Divine, not for things, witnessing begins. Let a little waiting enter your eyes and you will grow peaceful.

Take away the blackness from my eyes!
Fill my eyes again with waiting today!

Only remove a speck of soot from the eye. Don’t wrestle with the doer—refine the seeing; cleanse it. It is as if a grain of grit has fallen into your eye—you can’t see. Remove the speck and vision clears—everything becomes visible again. Even the Himalaya can be hidden by a grain of sand in your eye. Remove it, and the Himalaya appears again.

The Vast has been hidden by a tiny thing: you are no longer a witness. Awaken this. As you wake up, everything is already within you—the taste will begin to spread. There is nothing to acquire.

Ashtavakra’s supreme sutra is: as you are, you are already complete. Sitting here in this very moment, God dwells within you in his fullness.

Someone asked Sri Ramana, “Do you claim to be an avatar?” Ramana said, “An avatar is partial; a jnani is complete. Avatar means God descends in part; the knower is the whole—because he knows that there is none other than God.”

The questioner had come expecting Ramana to claim, “I am an avatar,” ready to argue. Ramana said, “Avatar? Why raise a small matter! Not an avatar—I am complete.”

I say to you: You too are complete. Each one is complete. Only the complete can come from the Complete. We are born of God—how can we be incomplete?

The Upanishads say: From the Complete, take away the complete; the Complete still remains. Put the complete into the Complete; still the Complete is as it is.

We are all complete, born of the Complete—and even after emerging, we remain complete. The experiential knowing of this is Brahma-knowledge, Buddhahood, kaivalya—call it what you will.

But beware—don’t get entangled in fighting and renouncing: “Leave this, avoid that, run from this.” You will be strangled—life will become a tangle. You’ll slip here, get caught there. Wherever you stand, do one thing: begin to look peacefully at whatever is happening. Among children, wife, friends, loved ones, work, shop, marketplace—become quiet and keep seeing. Let what happens, happen. Let it be as it is. Do not demand otherwise. See what the Beloved shows. Do what the Beloved makes you do.

Ashtavakra says: Blessed is he who, in this way, leaves all and surrenders. Start with small things—don’t begin with the big. The mind is a troublemaker; it says, “Try the big.” I say, be a witness. You say, “Fine, let’s witness—let’s witness sexual desire.” You’ve taken on a mountain from the start: like going mountaineering and heading straight for Everest. Practice on the Pune hills first; then go slowly. Everest too can be climbed; if someone has, so can you. Where a human has reached, humanity can reach. When Edmund Hillary reached Everest, the whole world rejoiced. Why joy? You didn’t reach; you sat where you were. But when one human reaches, humanity within feels it has reached. That’s why when a Buddha happens, all with eyes feel uplifted—not that they reached, but because one did, it becomes believable. No longer a mere dream—now truth.

Begin with small things. While walking, become a witness to walking—no big stake, no trouble. Go for a morning stroll—walk with witnessing. See that the body walks; you watch. Eating—be a witness. Lying on the bed—no obstacle there—eyes closed on the pillow, sleep not coming—be a witness. Lie and see what is happening. A car passes, a plane roars, a child cries—let whatever happens, happen; you remain the witness. Climb such little hills first. Then gradually experiment on bigger ones; as your strength grows, you’ll be able to bring witnessing to anger, greed, attachment, illusion, lust—everything.

But what do people do? The opposite. I speak of witnessing; they go wrestle the biggest mountain. They fail, then shelve witnessing: “It’s not for me.” Your mind tricked you. The mind says, “Go wrestle Dara Singh.” First do some training. Don’t break your bones for nothing. If you go straight to Dara Singh, you’ll give up wrestling for life: “It’s nothing but trouble—bones break.” The mind says, “Do it big—right away!” It is greedy: “If witnessing brings bliss, let’s free ourselves from lust right now.” You cannot—yet. Don’t leap that far. Choose some very small thing first.

If you smoke, choose that. Inhale and exhale the smoke—do it with witnessing. Sit, take out your cigarette—with awareness. Usually a smoker is utterly unconscious—automatic: tapping the pack, pulling one out, striking a match—mechanical, done a thousand times before. Do it all consciously. I’m not telling you to stop smoking right away; do it with awareness. Bring out the pack slowly—not with the usual hurry. Take time. You’ll be surprised: the slower you go, the more the urge to smoke weakens. Tap the cigarette not once, but seven times—slowly, so you can really see what you’re doing. You’ll feel your own stupidity: “What am I doing?” Light the match gently; draw the smoke in slowly; let it out slowly. Watch the whole process: you draw smoke in, you cough; you push smoke out, you cough—spending money for it too; the doctor warns of cancer; lungs are harmed. Look closely: where is the pleasure? Draw in again, let out again—where is the joy? Is there any?

I am not saying there isn’t—this is the difference between me and your other saints. They declare there is no pleasure—and they themselves haven’t smoked. Ask them, “Maharaj, have you ever tried a cigarette? How do you know?” I’m not declaring there is none. I say: perhaps there is; if you find it, let me know. But first watch closely—is it there? Don’t decide in advance. If you truly watch, you will be astonished at the foolish act you are performing. Your hand will stop; you will pause. In that pause lies revolution. Through that gap, the ray of change descends.

Do small acts like this—do them awake. Don’t be in a hurry to stop; be in a hurry to be aware. Stopping happens on its own—it is a result. As awareness deepens, things change.

Wherever you see yourself as separate,
Erase the self and behold the Self.
In tattered rags, hungry beggars
Know only this—your waiting.
Even in their sobbing, the Unstruck Note resounds,
It feels like meditation on Chidananda.
I watch your road—then at least feed my grains,
My wings are spread—please set them to flight.
I am yours—bear witness to this in my heart.
Let me hear just a faint dripping—
If you keep slipping away like this,
Even the caged bird will begin to fly.

Little by little—there is no need to leap outside the cage in one go. Just begin to flutter within the cage.

If you keep slipping away like this,
Even the caged bird will begin to fly.
My wings are spread—please set them to flight.
I am yours—bear witness to this in my heart.

Slowly, with witnessing, you will begin to hear the Divine’s voice: “You are mine; I am in you. You are my extension; I am the ocean, you are my wave.” In witnessing, God begins to be your witness. There lies the key to transformation, the stream of nectar—where death departs, where attachment to body falls away, where the dream dissolves and the Unseen awakens; where the eternal relation with the Supreme Consciousness is joined—forever.

There are two kinds of questions—those of the intellect and those of the heart. Questions of the intellect have no real value—worth a couple of pennies; they are like an itch. Just as one feels like scratching an itch, the intellect too wants to be scratched. But questions of the heart have great value, because they arise from feeling and are closer to the soul. Thought is very far from the soul; action is even farther. Action is farthest, thought less far, feeling nearer—and beyond feeling is being itself. So feeling is the closest.

"Not even a word slipped from my lips in your presence."

“Not a word could pass my lips before you—
Here I come with all I had thought within my heart!”

A man has asked, yet from these lines it may seem to you like a woman’s question. The feeling is feminine. Feeling is always feminine. Even a man’s feeling is feminine, just as a woman’s intellect is masculine. Logic is masculine; feeling is feminine. So whenever a man, too, becomes filled with feeling, femininity deepens.

That is why the devotees have said that God alone is the only male; we are all his sakhis, his companions.

“Not a word could pass my lips before you—
Here I come with all I had thought within my heart!”

A devotee comes having thought a thousand things, in a thousand ways—“I will say this, I will say that!” The lover thinks the same: “I will say this, I will say that.” And standing before the Beloved the tongue falls silent. That is the very sign of love. If, after all your rehearsals, you manage to deliver everything you prepared while standing before the Beloved, you have failed. Then the whole affair is futile—you remained in the play. You only repeated your rehearsal; you recited the lines you had memorized.

That is why I see that actors do not become good lovers. They become so skilled at acting—precisely for that reason. You may be surprised: their trade is love, they enact love, they talk of love twenty-four hours a day; yet the dialogues are so memorized that, standing before their beloved, they think they are speaking their heart while they are only delivering lines—nothing authentic happens. Actors fail utterly in love because they succeed so much in talking about love. They learn the technique; the soul dies. It is always so. If your love is real, all that you had thought suddenly turns to trash. Looking into the lover’s eyes you will find that the well-rehearsed has become useless. No, it doesn’t work; it has become pebbles and stones. It isn’t even right to bring it up. Words fall short; love is greater. Therefore love manifests through silence.

“Not a word could pass my lips before you—
Here I come with all I had thought within my heart!
Do not come because I say so, do not come because I call—
But do not slight these tears!”

Tears are never dishonored. The invitation of tears is always accepted. Whoever has learned to weep has attained. Nothing a person possesses is more precious than tears. If you go to the Lord’s temple and offer two tears, you have offered all the flowers of the world. And it is along the path of your tears that the Divine will enter you.

Know—and become unknowing.
Ask not what the Deity is like;
when the feeling to worship overflows,
say even to a lump of clay:
“Become God!”
Know—and become unknowing.

You see some devotee sitting by a thicket, praying to a lump of stone—and you laugh. You have not understood. You are outside his inner world. That is not the point. For him the stone is not a stone.

Ask not what the Deity is like;
when the feeling to worship overflows,
say even to a lump of clay:
“Become God!”

Wherever the devotee’s feeling is laid, there God is born. God is everywhere; when feeling is imposed, he becomes manifest.

So if tears have come into your eyes, it will not take long. Let your eyes be washed by tears. In those washed eyes, those bathed eyes, those freshly bathed eyes, the one you have called will enter. Your eyes themselves will become the doorway.

Weep—weep to your heart’s content!

Remember, for the one whose question this is, Ashtavakra’s Gita will not be a support. For you, Narada’s Sutras are the way. Ashtavakra’s Gita bids farewell to tears; the eyes go completely dry. In Ashtavakra’s Gita there is no place for feeling. In Ashtavakra’s Gita there is no place for devotion, for love, for the worshiped, for worship.

Therefore, to the one whose question it is, I say: whatever I am saying with regard to Ashtavakra is not for you. Your path is another. Your path is flower-laden. On your path there is lush greenery and birdsong. Ashtavakra’s path is the desert. The desert, too, has its own beauty—immense peace, silence stretching far. But on Ashtavakra’s way there is not the greenery found on the devotee’s way. There Krishna’s flute does not play.

For the one whose question this is, the way lies in Narada’s Sutras, in Meera’s songs, in Kabir’s upside-down songs.

“But do not slight these tears.”

This vow of love will give you so much. But keep one thing in mind: to fulfill this vow you will have to disappear completely. This is the difference between devotion and knowledge. The knower forgets the “Thou” entirely, and as the “Thou” is forgotten, the “I” dissolves. The devotee forgets the “I,” and as the “I” dissolves, the “Thou” disappears. Both arrive at the same ultimate emptiness—or supreme blessedness.

But the paths are different. The devotee, offering his “I” at the feet of the Divine, becomes empty. The knower even forgets God; he forgets the other itself—then where is there any place for God? That is why in the language of Buddha and Mahavira there is no place for “God.” God means the other, the second, the alien—and there is no other. The knower dives into the self and goes on leaving God behind.

Yet in the ultimate moment both paths reach the same place. Either become so utterly “I” that no “Thou” remains—and you have arrived. Or make the “Thou” so total that no “I” remains—and you have arrived. If only one of the two remains, you have arrived.

To the one whose question this is, my suggestion is: do not focus too much on Ashtavakra. It can create obstacles; there will be pain. But on the path of devotion even pain is sweet.

How could the droplets of nectar on the lips ever satisfy?
Draw out my very life with these kisses.
In the moment of love, even death is sweet;
in the instant of love, even the burn is sweet.

Again my very life is restless!
Break this horizon—I too would see what lies beyond.
The path on which aeons have been traveling—where is its end?
Again my very life is restless!

The devotee will be restless, he will weep, he will burn in the fire of separation; he will be filled with tears, scoured to salt, shattered into fragments and scattered. Yet in this pain there is a very sweet nectar. This pain is not misery; this pain is good fortune. And if you remain willing, one day spring arrives as well. If you just keep walking, passing through the fall, one day spring arrives.

When I saw the emerald leaves ache and wither,
when I saw autumn forcibly sink into the garden,
then I felt ashamed to be lamenting over my own dry vine,
when I saw the skeletons of trees frightened of themselves.
But such a breeze began to blow, such a magic descended,
that leaves appeared on the shoots, and a sigh stirred within.
Suddenly leaves appeared on the shoots, suddenly the fire of the lover awoke.
Such a breeze began to blow, such a magic descended.

Once you descend into this fire of pain, the fire of devotion—burn, be scorched—spring comes; surely it comes. Consider this pain your good fortune. Blessed are those who have the capacity to dissolve in love. God is not far from them. They are ready, moment to moment, to become the temple of the Divine: the doors open and God enters.

No, your tears will never be disrespected—never have been, never will be. Words may go in vain; tears have never gone in vain. And whoever reached the feet of the Divine with tears has not returned empty, because the one who goes with tears goes empty—and returns full. Soon the breeze will blow; leaves will grow again; flowers will bloom! Spring surely comes!

Hari Om Tatsat!