Maha Geeta #50

Time can be understood in two ways. One is clock time—that is outside. It really has nothing to do with you. The other is the time within you. That inner time has nothing to do with the clock. So when I say passion is time, desire is time, craving is time—don’t take it to mean clock time. There is a time within you. When we say Buddha and Mahavira became timeless, it is not that the outward clock stopped ticking for them. The clock keeps running—the inner clock has stopped. In meditation, in samadhi, the inner time falls to zero.

Let us recognize this inner time a little. When you are happy you must have noticed: the clock moves at its usual pace, but your inner time starts to run fast. You meet someone beloved and hours pass as if moments. The clock is still moving as it always does. When you are in joy, time contracts. When you are in sorrow, time expands. Your mother lies on her deathbed and you sit at her side—every minute feels stretched into years. Each moment seems to scrape by, to drag. In happiness, time seems to race. In suffering, time limps—like a crippled gait. In happiness, it runs with the pace of Olympic sprinters.

This means: if the hour of supreme bliss arrives, time becomes so slow you cannot even tell that it is moving. In the hour of supreme bliss, the change of time is not perceived. In the hour of great sorrow, time grows very long.

They say hell is eternal. There even a moment must seem like an eternity, because it passes with such difficulty. In heaven everything must be racing; a moment must feel gone in an instant—such is the speed. If the hour of supreme bliss arrives...

Supreme bliss means: where neither sorrow remains nor happiness remains. If the hour of ananda arrives—where sorrow is no more and happiness is no more—then time neither walks nor runs. Time is not there at all—timeless, beyond time! A zero-time moment arrives. Everything is stilled.

It is this inner time that needs to be understood. The outer clock will go on as it always does—whether you are enlightened or unenlightened; in joy or sorrow; even in samadhi. You sit in meditation; hours pass; you open your eyes and feel as if no time has gone by—but the clock will tell you three hours have passed.

Ramakrishna would go into deep meditation, into samadhi. Six hours would pass. The devotees would become frightened, because his body would become as if made of stone. He would be lost in some inner realm. They would worry: will he return, will he be able to come back? Once this state continued for six days. Even the breath seemed to have stopped. Everything seemed to have become a void. The devotees had given up hope. When he returned they said, Do you know—six days…? He said, How astonishing, because it felt to me as though I had just gone and just come back, not even a moment had passed.

This inner sense of time is due to craving. The more thirst there is in you, the more inner time expands. For your thirst to spread, it needs the space of time—otherwise where will it spread? In the clock’s time outside, a moment comes only once; two moments never come together. In one moment what craving can you do? In one moment you can only live; you cannot lust. If you lust, the moment is gone. You can hum a song, but you cannot prepare to hum the song—because if you prepare, the time is already gone. It doesn’t wait that long! The moment has no sooner arrived than it is gone. There is no such leisure. In the present you can live, but you cannot make plans for living.

Therefore all meditators have said: live in the present—here and now! If beyond this you harbor no desire, time is finished. Time is needed because we need a tomorrow. If there is no tomorrow, how will things go on? On what canvas will we spread the pictures of our craving? Tomorrow there will be happiness. Today there is sorrow, so we keep the hope of tomorrow. Tomorrow the dream will come true. Tomorrow will also arrive as today arrives, and then you will project the dream still further onto another tomorrow. In this way your dream keeps spreading—into empty sky!

There is no future. What is, is the present. What has gone, has gone. What has not come, has not come. What is here now is a tiny bridge between future and past—a single moment. That is all. Dive into that moment. You can live, but you cannot plan living. You can attain truth, but you cannot spread a dream. Truth is standing right here at the door, but if your eyes are dreamy and you are seeing dreams, then you need time. To see a dream you need time. To see truth no time is needed. Thus the bigger the dream, the more time you require—the longer a time you demand.

The more desire there is, the more a man is afraid of death. What does fear of death mean? What does death do? Death steals time. Death closes the door to the future. Death gives no chance that there is more time ahead. Clever people have devised a further trick. They say, There will be another birth—and craving begins to spread again. Whatever did not happen in this life, we will do in the next! What is the hurry? Then desire sprouts anew, new leaves open. They have even belied death. The panic that death used to bring is also removed. They have found a way even through death. The fear of death is exactly this fear: death says, Now there is no more tomorrow. That which wipes out the tomorrow, we call kal—Time-as-Death. Kal means death. No more tomorrow. Your very life begins to panic. Today you received nothing—indeed you never received anything today. Today always went empty. You lived only in the hope of tomorrow—and death snatched even that hope.

Death takes nothing from you—except your hopes. Therefore from the one who has dropped hopes, death can take nothing. Then there is nothing left to snatch. He stands before death. For the one who has dropped dreams, death has no effect on him. Because death can only kill dreams, not truth; it can kill the false, not the real. For the man without dreams there is no fear of death; death is finished—he has become immortal.

The moment you are free of dreams, you are free of time. Free of time, you attain immortality.

But mark this as well: the ordinary desire-ridden person’s idea of immortality is also wrong. His notion of immortality is: a very long life, a life that never ends. He says, We will keep on living; we will never die—further, and further, and further! His notion of immortality is an expansion of time. When the wise speak of immortality, they do not mean that. They mean the ending of time.

That is why the wise and the ignorant sometimes use the same language, but their meanings are utterly different. When the wise say, You have become immortal, they are not saying that you will now remain forever. They are saying: only the present is your being—there is no other being. In this moment you are. That is enough. Nothing more is needed. This very moment has become the eternal. There is no length—there is depth. From this very moment you have gone deep. That depth has no shore, no far side, no farther bank!

Only desire is the shadow of time. You can call desire the shadow of time or time the shadow of desire. It is more accurate to say that time is the shadow of desire. If desire drops, time drops. If time drops, desire too drops. But your effort has to be to let desire drop—because at the very root is desire, the wanting: something is needed! As I am, I am not content; I must become something else! There is the seed of desire. What I have is not enough; I must get more! The world as it is will not do; it should be otherwise, in accord with my dreams. My mind is not delighted.
If there is even a trace of discontent, desire has arisen. In the expanding of that desire, time also arises. It is better to say desire and time are two sides of the same coin.
When someone obstructs your desire, anger is born. Anger is not fundamental; desire is fundamental. Anger is a by-product. You were rushing to make money; an enemy stood in the way, someone raised a wall, or someone snatched first what you were going to take—anger arose.
Watch closely: when does anger arise? When some hindrance appears in the race of your desire. Sometimes you get angry at such things that later you yourself will laugh. You sat to write a letter, and the fountain pen didn’t work—so you slammed it down in anger. You throw the pen in anger, and later regret: the Parker pen is spoiled, it cost you money. What was the point of throwing it? But it is symbolic. You were writing to your beloved—a great web of longing, words were descending, poetry was floating in the mind—and this pen began to obstruct in the middle? This pen became the enemy?
I know a gentleman who is mad about cricket. A match was on somewhere; he sat listening on the radio. His team lost—he picked up the radio and smashed it! What does your team’s losing have to do with smashing the radio? The radio has no fault—yet anger came. Nothing else occurred to him; there was nothing else there.
When what you want doesn’t happen, you go blind. Then you don’t see what you are doing. People abuse objects. The car won’t start—they curse the car, without even thinking what they are doing. As if the car is doing it knowingly… You are going to the shop and the car stalls; anger comes.
Look closely at your anger. Anger is not fundamental. Wherever lustful desire finds an obstacle, anger arises. And whatever desire gains, attachment arises toward it—lest it be lost!
Therefore attachment is not fundamental either. You got money; then you lock it in a safe and sit guarding it. They say, even after death people coil around their wealth like a snake. Whether they do so after dying or not, they certainly do so while living—coiled around it: let no one take it! They will die but will not spend.
Mulla Nasruddin’s son was drowning in a river in flood. A policeman risked his life and saved him, brought him home. The boy ran inside; the policeman stood waiting, thinking at least one of the parents would come—if nothing else, to say thank you. Nasruddin came out, and the boy pointed toward the policeman. Nasruddin said, “Was it you who saved my son from the river?” The policeman felt pleased—now he will say thanks, or give a gift, or some reward. He said, “Yes, I saved him; it was very dangerous.” Nasruddin said, “Forget the danger—where is the boy’s cap?”
The cap floated away somewhere. The fact that the son was saved doesn’t concern him; attachment to the cap…
Whatever desire attains, attachment coils around it. Let no one snatch it! It was obtained with so much difficulty—knocking at many doors, begging, wandering from place to place, eating the dust of the road—somehow we got it; now let it not slip away! So what is obtained, one doesn’t even enjoy; one just coils around it.
That’s why you won’t find anyone poorer than the rich. The poor at least can enjoy. He doesn’t have much to coil around. To coil, you need something. He gets a rupee or two, he has some fun. There isn’t anything worth hoarding—so what to hoard? And even if you hoard, what will be saved? But the rich man, who has—he cannot enjoy; miserliness arises: save more, save more! He forgets why he was saving. Saving itself becomes the goal!
So attachment too is a by-product; it is not fundamental. And then, having got something, where is satisfaction? Satisfaction never comes. The web of dissatisfaction keeps spreading. A thousand gained, then ten thousand is wanted. Ten thousand gained, then a hundred thousand is wanted. The ratio between you and what you have remains the same; it doesn’t change. With one rupee you want ten; with one lakh you want ten lakhs. The ratio of ten remains.
Look at the mathematics of your life—you will be astonished. When you had one rupee, you asked for ten. Your sorrow was so much—because nine were lacking. Now you have a hundred thousand, and you ask for a million. Your sorrow is just as much—because nine hundred thousand are lacking. That lack of nine remains. If you have a crore, you will ask for ten crores. Your asking never synchronizes with what you have; it always lunges ahead. The lunging, racing form of desire is called greed.
Therefore anger, attachment, greed are not fundamental. Don’t fight them directly. Some people fight them head-on and thus never win. Whenever you have to fight, fight the seed, not the leaves. Cut the root, not the branches; otherwise there will be no benefit. You can keep cutting anger; nothing will change. New leaves will sprout on the tree of desire. In truth, the more you prune, the denser the tree becomes. So don’t get entangled with these—that would be a wrong diagnosis. Catch the root.
By cutting desire, anger, attachment, and greed all begin to wither on their own. And as desire is cut, time too gradually thins out. A state arises in which you are wholly where you are; as you are, so utterly content, a deep satisfaction—no ripple arises! Not even the feeling to become something else arises. As you are, that is right—and along with it a thankfulness, an ah! a sense of grace toward the divine. In such a moment, time is no more. In such a moment you become timeless.
That is why I tell you again and again: whatever you do, do it with such total absorption that, in that moment, time disappears. That itself is meditation. If you are digging a hole in the garden, dig with such absorption that only digging remains. Let such a relish arise in the digging, such satisfaction, that it feels there is nothing beyond this to do or to become. Then that very digging becomes meditation. Right there you are outside time, and as you keep digging you will find a current of meditation beginning to flow.
Where time goes, there is meditation. Where time becomes zero, there is samadhi.

First thing: what is, is—whether you accept it or not. What is, is. That doesn’t change. Your non-acceptance doesn’t change it either. If old age has arrived, it has arrived. What difference does your refusal make? The only difference will be that you won’t be able to enjoy the flavor that old age could have given you. The grace that might have been in old age will not happen. The benediction that could be there in old age will be fractured. Old age will not disappear. What is, is. Your denial neither erases it nor changes it. Nothing comes of your refusal—only you lose something in the refusal; what do you gain?

A person who has accepted his aging, his old age, in totality—you will see on his face a beauty that even a young face does not have. In youth’s beauty there is a kind of fever, a heat. In the beauty of old age there is coolness. In youth’s beauty there are waves of desire, an agitated mind, restlessness. In youth’s beauty there is a kind of derangement, a fever—of course there will be; a kind of storm, a gale.

The beauty of old age is as if the storm came and passed, and the peace that descends after the storm—deep peace. Have you seen it? Clouds gather, the storm comes, lightning flashes, and then all is gone. The stillness that follows! Everything hushed! All of nature silent! Such is the peace of old age.

If you accept it, there is benediction in old age. Those white hairs on an old man’s head—if they have been embraced in totality—their beauty is like the white snow resting on the peaks of the Himalayas.

So old age will remain whether you deny it or accept it. Denial only spreads a tension over old age; a distortion comes in, cracks appear. Old age becomes uglier, worse. When I tell you to accept what is, I am not saying that by accepting you will be able to change it. No one has ever changed it. Change—as such—does not happen. And if any transformation happens, it happens through acceptance: the sting goes, the poison goes, and it becomes nectar.

When weariness fills the breath, when fatigue pervades life,
all dreams break and fly away
like the leaves of a tree in fall.
My dreams too have begun to shatter and scatter on all sides,
and I, lifting on my thin arms
the vastness of the sky, stand alone—
not in the belief that this is some great valor,
but only because now there is no other way.

And then, keep one more thing in mind about acceptance. Acceptance does not mean “now there is no other way.” Then it is not acceptance; then it is compulsion. Then you have not accepted with gratitude.

Do not mistake for acceptance that which has no welcome in it. When I say acceptance, the life-breath of acceptance is welcome. Acceptance means: “I am blessed—Lord, you have given even old age! You gave the stormy beauty of youth; you have also given the calm, grace-filled beauty of old age, this dignity! You gave the innocence of childhood, the mixed state of knowing and unknowing in youth; you have also given the pure awareness of old age!”

If life moves with such an accepting attitude—whatever comes, accept it—with deep gratitude within, you will find you have a key in your hand that opens all locked doors. No secret of life will remain hidden from you. By needless head-banging and noise-making nothing happens. Even if the one who makes noise accepts someday, he accepts as a defeated, tired man—saying, “All right, now there is no other way.”

We have a word: samarpan. In English there is the word “surrender,” but it is not the precise equivalent of samarpan. I face great difficulty when I try to explain samarpan to a seeker from the West, because they don’t have the exact word. “Surrender” does translate samarpan, but wrongly—just as when one country loses to another and surrenders, or when a soldier, defeated by another, surrenders his weapons. That is the meaning of surrender in English, or in any Western language.

In the languages of India, samarpan has something more in it. There is samarpan in love too, not only in war. In war there is defeat—but that is only defeat. In love there is defeat too—but the defeat in love is victory. The one who has learned how to be defeated in love has learned the art of winning.

A disciple offers samarpan to the master—this is not like an enemy surrendering to an enemy. As Porus surrendered to Alexander, or Germany to England—this is not that kind of surrender. So when I tell a Western seeker “surrender,” he is a bit startled: surrender! With surrender the wrong associations come along. Surrender means “no.” Who is willing to be defeated! In the East, when we say samarpan, there is a much larger meaning: it means you have come to a place where you can rest. Now do not fight. If you fight now, you will lose. If you lose now, you will win.

Lao Tzu says: No one can defeat me, because I am already defeated. You cannot win over me, because I have no ambition to win. You cannot defeat me, because I have already surrendered.

And the beauty of Lao Tzu! Life as it is, whatever life shows, whatever life brings—there is a heart utterly open to it. Nowhere any resistance, any opposition. On no plane any kind of conflict.

Its acceptance itself is happiness. It is not that happiness lies in acceptance—as if you will first accept and then happiness will follow. No, acceptance itself is happiness. Where there is no acceptance, there is no happiness; and when acceptance happens, it happens simultaneously. Try it and see. Accept anything and see.

In rejection there is misery. Rejection means the net of desire has spread. Rejection means: “We wanted something else, Lord, and what have you made happen? We asked for something else, and what have you given?” Rejection means: the complaint has begun. Rejection means: we have declared, “This is wrong.”

Acceptance means: in this world of the Divine, nothing wrong happens. It cannot happen. How can anything be wrong while he is?

A great atheist, Diderot, wrote: so much wrong is happening in the world that God cannot exist. This has its appeal. It appeals to me too. If you believe that wrong is happening in the world, then you cannot have faith in God—because if God is, how can there be wrong? Diderot’s argument is: either God is, and then wrong cannot be; or wrong is happening—then at least concede that there is no God.

So the person who says, “God is, and wrong is happening,” understand that he is a pseudo-believer. His God is utterly false. He still feels something is wrong. I call him a theist who says: how can anything be wrong—God is! Wrong is impossible. If something appears wrong to me, then there is some error in my seeing. There is a veil over my eyes. My vision is not clear. I am misperceiving. But wrong cannot be. Even if a murderer comes to kill me, then too something right must be happening—because how can there be wrong? It is happening by his will. Without his will nothing can happen.

So I tell you: acceptance is happiness. Acceptance is peace. And the day you accept in such a way that even in the murderer it is God’s own hand, that day will you be able to imagine that within you there is anything other than God? When you can see him even in the murderer, then you will also be able to see him in yourself. Therefore acceptance itself is godliness. By accepting, you become God.

Ahle-dil are many, the true and faithful are many;
We alone are not the only ones at odds with the world.
This path of love’s wild madness does not end with us;
There are other torn hearts, other rent robes as well.
If the head is intact, why fear the stones of blame?
If life remains, there are other goblets fate will press to our lips.

No—never even by mistake think, “Who could be pettier in intent than I?” This whole world, all these people—however much they talk of God—their God is a matter of talk. Their intent is petty.

Food was lacking in Vivekananda’s home. His father died. His mother hungry, he himself hungry. Ramakrishna said, “Do this: go and ask the Lord. Go into the temple; he will listen to you. I am certain. Go and ask. Whatever you seek will be given.”

Vivekananda went inside. Half an hour later he came out swaying, eyes full of tears, as if intoxicated. Ramakrishna asked, “Did you ask?” Vivekananda said, “What?” Ramakrishna said, “I sent you to ask for what you need—to lay aside this suffering and poverty.” Vivekananda said, “I forgot completely. How could I stand before Her and ask? Standing there I just swayed. How could I ask, standing before Her?”

They say Ramakrishna sent him three times, and each time the same happened. Then Ramakrishna laughed out loud. Vivekananda asked, “I don’t understand, Paramahamsa-ji—why do you laugh?” Ramakrishna said, “If today you had asked, all ties between you and me would have snapped. Not asking today, you have come very close to my heart. For this is the mark of a true devotee.”

All asking is petty. A mind that lives by asking is petty-minded. Then it makes no difference what we ask for. The world is full of beggars: one asks for wealth, another asks for meditation—but the asking continues. One says, “Let me have a fine house.” Another says, “House or no house—give me a fine mind, without hatred or jealousy!” But the matter remains the same.

When I say “acceptance,” I mean total acceptance—what is! If he has given hatred, jealousy—accept that too! In this acceptance you will witness a miracle. It hides there. The moment you accept, you will be astonished: as soon as the lamp of acceptance is lit, hatred disappears without a trace. For hatred, jealousy, envy are but the shadows of asking. When acceptance enters your life, lovelessness vanishes of itself. Light the lamp of acceptance, and the darkness of lovelessness, violence, and aversion dissolves on its own.

What does “lovelessness” mean? Only this: “This person is not as I want him to be”—and so lovelessness arises.

Even those we love—do we ever love them completely? We keep seeing a thousand faults, a thousand lacks. A moment ago we loved; in the next moment anger flares—some flaw appeared. Nowhere does the perfect appear. Our notion of “the perfect” is an impossible imagination. No one can fulfill it. Even if God stood before you—believe me—you would find this or that shortcoming. Surely you would. Perhaps this is why he does not stand before you. You shout for a vision, but he hides. He knows you: if he revealed himself before you, it would only create trouble. You would find a thousand faults.

Have you ever thought what faults you would pick if God stood before you? The Buddha passed by—you found faults. Mahavira lived among you—you found faults. Krishna lived among you—you found faults. In Christ you found so many faults you nailed him to the cross. With Socrates you were so angry you made him drink poison. You cut Mansur to pieces. What treatment have you given sages and saints!

God has manifested many times, and every time he has found that you pick faults.

I read a story: God, sitting in heaven, was tired. One of his advisors said, “Why don’t you take a short holiday?” He said, “Where would I go? Where could I vacation?” They said, “You haven’t been down to the earth in a long time—go there.” He said, “No, no! Have you forgotten the earth so soon? Two thousand years ago I sent my son Jesus—what did they do to him? They’ll do the same to me!”

You will find fault—until total acceptance arises in your life. And when total acceptance is there, can you find any place where God does not appear? Then you’ll see him blooming in the flower, flowing in the stream, drifting in a white cloud across the sky, sounding in the birdsong.

If acceptance is within you, then instantly, in the revolution of that acceptance, the whole world is transformed. Will you be spared the transformation? You too will be transformed.

So I say to you—this will seem very difficult—because your saints have said, “If there is no wealth, accept it.” They have said, “If you have a hut, not a palace—accept it.” They have said, “If no son is born in the house—accept it.” But they have not said, “Accept anger too, accept jealousy too, accept hatred too.” I say this to you—because my acceptance is complete. I say: accept whatsoever is. Acceptance only of the outer is incomplete.

I say: forgive yourself as well. Your saints have said, “Forgive others.” I say: be gracious—forgive yourself too. And mark this: one who has not forgiven himself will never be able to forgive anyone. Understand this sutra.

If you are harsh with yourself, you will be harsh with others. If hatred is within you, and you “know” hatred is bad and shouldn’t be, then when you see hatred arise in another—how will you forgive? How could it be? It won’t add up. If anger is in you and you cannot forgive your own anger, then at the faintest glimpse of anger in another—how will you forgive?

Your saints are giving you empty talk: “Forgive the other.”

Mahatma Gandhi told his disciples: “Be strict with yourself, gentle with others.” This is impossible. The statement itself is wrong. One who is strict with himself will, knowingly or unknowingly, be strict with others. In truth, one who is strict with himself will be even stricter with others.

Whatever you do with yourself, you will do with others. You cannot do otherwise. For the smallest matters you will begin to condemn others in your mind—over petty things of no value! You will not be able to forgive.

I am saying something else to you. I say: forgive yourself too. Because the same God dwells within you as well. Forgive! Forgive once, forgive twice, forgive a thousand times! And accept that as you are is how God has wanted you to be. It is his will that anger is in you—now what will you do? Accept this too.

And understand: the very moment you accept even anger, can anger survive within you? Anger arises from rejection. Anger is tension, restlessness; it arises when you deny.

Notice the difference: whatever you accept, there is no anger in it. A man comes and gives you a hard slap on the back—anger is already rising; you turn and see it’s your friend: finished. Anger had already come, was at your nose; had you turned and seen a stranger, you would have grappled. A blow is a blow—friend or foe, it makes no difference; nor can you distinguish until you turn and look. What can you do—stand as you are and decide whether it was friend or enemy? How? Anger rises. You turn and see it’s a friend—the matter changes. What happened? Acceptance. “It’s my friend—he struck me in love.” If it’s an enemy—rejection; anger boils. The blow is the same.

You’ve seen friends abuse each other and no one is offended. In truth, friendship isn’t yet friendship until abuse can be exchanged! Ask, “What kind of friendship is it?” If he says, “We trade abuses,” then it’s solid. And rightly so. For deep friendship means even what would ordinarily provoke enmity no longer does. Even if he abuses me, he’s mine. No obstacle. Acceptance. In fact, when a friend abuses, there is a certain relish—“He still remembers; he hasn’t forgotten; the friendship stands.” The same abuse, the same words from other lips—and trouble.

Where you accept, flowers bloom. Where you reject, thorns prick. I say to you: total acceptance, ultimate acceptance. Drop this nonsense about changing—“let this be, let that not be.” Who are you? Say to God, “Let thy will be done.” With all your changing, where have you reached? There’s another delight here...

An old gentleman came to me and said, “I have a terrible temper.”

I asked, “How old are you?”

“Seventy-eight.”

“How long have you been fighting anger?”

“All my life.”

I said, “Now understand. After seventy-eight years of fighting, anger hasn’t gone—what does that mean? It means fighting removes nothing. At least at the end of life, accept; surrender. It is clear: God wants anger to be in you, and you want it not to be. You will lose; God is winning. Seventy-eight years you’ve been losing. How much longer?”

“Take my advice,” I said. “Accept it. You’ve tried fighting for seventy-eight years—try my way for one year.” Something struck him. The arithmetic was clear: seventy-eight years! He himself thought—perhaps he had never looked at it this way.

People hardly think. They just keep going, running, doing—repeating the same thing. No result—and still they do it, squeezing sand to get oil.

“It’s been seventy-eight years,” I said. “Drop it now—this is sand; no oil comes from it. Otherwise you’d have won—you’re a strong man. How many times have you been taken to court?”

“Many times,” he said, “because of this anger. Quarrels and brawls have been my life. Wherever I go, it’s strife. In everything, trouble. At home too, no harmony. Not with my sons. Not with my brother. Never with my father. Father even died in quarrel. When he died we weren’t on speaking terms. My wife died crying. But something in me doesn’t change.”

I said, “You’ve exerted your full effort. Now for one year, follow me. Accept.”

A year later he came—it was hard to recognize him. Such grace on his face. He said, “An extraordinary thing happened. I accepted—and told everyone that I am an angry man, and I’ve given up the idea of being otherwise. I took a vow there: for one year I will be as I am. I told my sons, my brothers—‘Accept me as I am; I have accepted myself.’ And somehow the year passed and anger hasn’t come to call.”

What happened? When you accept, the tension departs. The moment you admit, “I am angry,” you surrender. Otherwise we circle the same loop like an ox at the oil press—again and again, reaching nowhere.

The directions are closed;
The sky flutters, flaps—and returns to the same place.
The winds that came from here yesterday
Could not depart;
Panting, like heavy, burdened mist,
A shadow lingers.
The directions are closed.
Someone shakes the wall from the other side,
Then, weary, turns back.
Sun—an ocean ablaze; islands of shade
Slide away, melting.
Fish—dead, it seems, every moment—
Rise to the surface every day,
Nets slung on shoulders.
Day arrives in the morning,
And every evening returns empty-handed.
The directions are closed;
The sky flutters, flaps—
And returns to the same place.

Your entire life is a wheel spinning in a circle. That’s why Hindus call life the life-cycle. Look at India’s flag—the wheel on it is the Buddhist wheel. The Buddhists saw life as a cartwheel turning on the same axle. One spoke comes up, then goes down; then a little later the same spoke rises again.

Analyze twenty-four hours of your life. You’ll find: anger comes, remorse comes, then anger again. Love comes, hatred comes, then love again. Friendship forms, enmity comes, then friendship again. So it goes—the spokes keep turning, the wheel of life keeps revolving. A wheel means repetition.

When will you awaken from this repetition? Do something! Do one thing: until now you have tried to change—now accept! With acceptance, a new dimension opens. You’ve never done this. Do this utterly new thing. And I’m not speaking of helplessness—I’m speaking of gratitude. “Whatever God has given has a purpose. If anger is given, it has a purpose.” Your great men keep advising, “Let there be no anger,” but God does not listen. Again a child is born—and he comes with anger. For centuries sages have advised, and yet neither you nor God have listened. No one listens to sages. They must all have gone to heaven and there too they must be pestering God, “Now stop this—don’t put anger in man anymore.”

But think: if a child were born without anger, could he live? He would have no force, no spine. One slap and he would lie there like a lump of clay. Could he rise? Walk? He would be a cow-dung Ganesha—of no use.

Have you noticed? The more a child has the capacity for anger, the more vital he is, the more powerful. And the greatest personalities in history were people of great energy.

Have you seen Mahavira’s forgiveness? We are told nothing of Mahavira’s anger. But I say to you: if such great forgiveness arose—where did it come from? There must have been great anger. Jains are afraid to speak of it. But I cannot believe that great forgiveness can be without great anger. If such immense celibacy arose, there must have been immense sexual energy—where else would it come from? Have you ever seen a eunuch become a celibate? What meaning would a eunuch’s celibacy have?

Notice this: the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras are all Kshatriyas, and Buddha too was a Kshatriya. And all preached nonviolence. Think: born in warrior houses, their lives formed under the shadow of swords—their schooling. Killing was their profession; blood their sport. And then suddenly, all became nonviolent.

Have you ever heard of a Brahmin becoming nonviolent? Not yet. The greatest of Brahmins—Parashurama—was the most violent. They say he annihilated the Kshatriyas eighteen times over. What a man he must have been! Born in a Brahmin house. From the Kshatriyas came the principle of nonviolence; and Parashurama came wielding an axe. Something to ponder.

Something to ponder: where there is anger and violence, from there nonviolence is born. Nonviolence is not of the coward, nor can it be. It belongs to one whose inner fire blazes.

God gives anger because it is your energy—raw energy. Refining this energy, accepting it, understanding it, awakening through it—you will one day find this very energy has become forgiveness.

Anger becomes compassion—what is needed is the alchemy of acceptance. Lust becomes celibacy—what is needed is the alchemy of acceptance. No one attains celibacy by fighting lust. By understanding lust, by living it with full awareness, one attains celibacy.

Only one thing is your true companion—the discernment that arises in the mood of acceptance, the understanding that dawns there. Fighters have no understanding. Fight anger, and in that very fight you will lose understanding. Fight sex, and in the fighting you will lose understanding. Where is understanding in struggle? Understanding needs the great calm of acceptance. In the peace of acceptance, the lamp of insight is lit.

My wax-lamp, companion of insight!
How helpless it seems, yet it is life’s very sap;
Moment by moment, instant by instant, breath by breath the dawn touches it.
Forgetting its own being, it beckons the sun—
My wax-lamp!
So helpless it seemed; it learned how to melt.
Drop by drop, crimson drop by drop, the ocean of light pours.
Becoming millions upon millions, it pervades a tiny circle—
My wax-lamp!
Pressed to the heart, tucked in a pocket, set firm on the sill:
When I wish, it wakes; when I wish, it sleeps.
In pain it stays by me; in the play it loses itself—
My wax-lamp!
My wax-lamp, companion of insight!

A small lamp—like a candle. Yet with it we call to the sun. The light burning in this little candle is the sun’s own. Accept.

God has accepted this entire existence—otherwise it would not be. He has embraced the whole play—otherwise it could not be. That is why we call it his leela, his divine play. How absorbed he is in his play! Nowhere is there rejection. However bad you are, you are still embraced by God. However bad, however sinful, however far you have gone—you are still embraced.

Jesus said: Just as a shepherd, returning at dusk with his sheep, counts them and finds one missing—he leaves the ninety-nine helpless in the dark forest and goes to seek the one. Lantern in hand, calling down into the valleys. And when he finds that sheep, do you know what he does? Jesus said: He carries it back upon his shoulders.

God carries even the one who has gone far astray upon his shoulders. He holds the wanderer more tenderly. As God has embraced all, so you too embrace all. Then the lamp within you will be lit, and your little flame will call to the sun. You will become sun-like. In a small circle, yes—but the Vast will descend! The sky will come down into your courtyard!

Love and meditation are two as the journey, one as the destination. Whenever meditation happens, love will happen of its own accord. And whenever love happens, meditation will happen of its own accord. So the one who is still walking may choose either love or meditation, but on reaching, the other will be found too. It is impossible that someone be meditative and not loving. The result of meditation is love. When you become perfectly silent, what remains with you except a stream of love? Love will flow.

That is why Jesus has said: Love is God. If you are a lover, what ultimately remains besides meditation? For the lover disappears, the lover is drowned, the ego melts. Where the ego has melted and you are dissolved, what remains is meditation, is samadhi.

There are two kinds of religions in the world—religions of meditation and religions of love. Religions of meditation—like Buddhism and Jainism. Religions of love—like Islam, Hinduism, Christianity, Sikhism. But as for the final outcome, whichever way you go… As a mountain has many paths: whichever way you walk, at the summit they all meet; whether you climb from the east or from the west. While climbing it appears very different—someone climbing from the east, someone from the west. Different scenery, different valleys, different stones and cliffs—everything seems different. But arriving at the peak, the ultimate peak, you arrive at the one. Paths are many; where you arrive is one.

It is auspicious that it feels to you that love and meditation are the same. They are one.

And if you listen to me with love and with meditation, then nothing remains to be done. It can happen in the very listening. If it does not happen in the listening, then some doing remains. If you have heard rightly—if you have heard the proclamation of truth rightly—then that proclamation is enough. Tell me, what remains to be done if you have truly heard? The happening occurs in listening. Because there is nothing to attain; what is to be attained is already given. You only have to be reminded.

Therefore the saints say: Naam-smaran—remembrance of the Name! Let His Name be remembered, and the matter is finished. It has never been lost. You are seated in your own home; only the notion has settled that you have gone elsewhere. If the remembrance comes that you are seated in your own home—the matter is done. Like a man asleep, sleeping in his home and dreaming that he has reached Tokyo, that he has reached Timbuktu. The eyes open—he finds he is at home; there is no Timbuktu and no Tokyo. You have not gone anywhere; you are right there.

If the proclamation of one who has awakened… That is the situation: I see you asleep near me, I see you turning over, your eyelids fluttering. It seems you are dreaming, even muttering something—so I say to you, Wake up! If you hear me rightly and wake up, what is left to do? The matter is finished.

Those who are not capable of listening ask, “What should we do? Tell us some method. Some device.” But one who is asleep—even if you give him a method, what will he do with it? He is in Timbuktu; you say to him, “Return home,” and he says, “By which train shall I return?” Now there is a new hassle. He is already at home. “Shall I take the airplane, or the train, or a ship?” What can one say to him? “Take the train”? There’s more danger: if he boards the train, who knows where he will land! As it is, he has reached Timbuktu without a train. Now if he boards a train from Timbuktu, he will go somewhere else. He cannot return home that way.

No train is needed to return home. No method is needed, no device is needed—awareness alone is enough. You drifted into unawareness; you will return into awareness. You fell asleep and “went away”; you wake up and you are back.

My silent night has been made eloquent
by the sweet anklets of Your steps.
In the rhythm of those anklets
my breaths have recognized their own rhythm;
in the sound of those anklets
my life-breaths have known their own song.
Every pore keeps time,
to the jingling of those bells.
With this restless, ringing anklet
today bind my voice.
My silent night is made vocal
by the sweet anklets of Your feet.

What I am saying to you is no doctrine; it is simply a music. There is a music that puts you to sleep—a mother sings a lullaby and the child sleeps. And there is another kind of music that awakens—you hear the alarm clock and sleep breaks.

What I am saying to you is not a doctrine. It is only a music, a single note—if you can hear it, you begin to awaken. If you hold to that current of sound, you will reach the place from which you have never moved. You will become what you are, what you ought to be. You will recognize your own nature—in the very glimmer of that music! And then surely you will find that just by listening you have bathed in the Ganges and Yamuna.

Surely, what I am saying to you has brought the Ganges and Yamuna to your very door. Do not stand on the bank—take a dip! There are many so unfortunate—many among you—that even if the Ganges comes before them, they will still stand there thirsty. They will not manage even to bend and fill their cupped hands, to quench a throat that is parched. They will remain standing on the bank. If you just bend a little… you bend a little, and you will find the Lord everywhere.

The sunshine of Your beauty blazes at every water-step,
at every well the pitcher overflows with nectar.
Your hopes dwell in every hamlet,
Your ecstasy is ocean upon ocean, at every water-step.

If you bend a little, you will be intoxicated. If you open your small pitcher, the Ocean will pour in.

What I am saying to you is not a doctrine, not philosophy. I do not want to make you Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Jain. I want only to awaken you—to that which you are. I do not want to make you into anything. I want to give you only what is already yours, which you have forgotten. I want to give you only that which lies within you. It is only a matter of reminding. And if you become a little attuned to my note, the rasa—the play of ecstasy—begins.

So whoever gets attuned to the note even for a short while will surely arrive at the confluence of the Ganges and Yamuna. The streams of tears will begin to flow! A dance begins that may not be visible from the outside; it will be his own inward experience. Even if you wish to explain it to another, you will not be able to. Do not try to explain; there is a danger the other will explain you instead: “You have gone mad. Has such a thing happened anywhere? Has truth ever been attained by listening?” I tell you, by listening alone it is attained—because it was never lost. Had it been lost, it could not be found by listening either; you would have to search.

Someone comes to me and says, “I want to seek God.” I say, Seek—you will never find. First ask: when did you lose Him? If He is lost, then He can be sought. If He is not lost, how will you seek?

So if intoxication begins to arise in you, and within you some door opens, some little window, and within you a wine begins to pour—then do not tell anyone, drink it silently! No one will understand it. Others will laugh. They will say: “You have been hypnotized, or gone mad, or lost your wits. What have you gotten into?” Do not tell anyone—drink it silently. Because what is not another’s experience, another cannot understand.

In spring-touched moments an unsung ghazal sprouts,
in the maddened heart a harvest of songs grows.
As dawn opens, the vagrant dreams turn merchant,
the language of the eyes makes the eyes unearthly.
With Shyam beside, Radha’s noon becomes evening;
no barrier remains—shyness itself becomes shy.
In the maddened heart a harvest of songs grows.

Only when you are almost mad with ecstasy does the harvest of songs grow.

In spring-touched moments an unsung ghazal sprouts—
the ghazal you have not yet sung waits for you. The song you have not yet hummed lies in your seed, wanting to sprout, aching. Give it a chance. If, with me, sitting with me, you dance a little, hum a little, sway a little…

With Shyam beside, Radha’s noon becomes evening;
no barrier remains—shyness itself becomes shy.

In a certain moment, when you begin to sway with me—toward those far heights to which I want to lift you—even if for a moment you spread your wings, in that very instant tears flow. In that very instant a sweet taste begins to spread within you. A deep satisfaction begins to fill your throat. Call it a moment of love, a moment of meditation—two ways of saying the same thing.

Now there is no need of a path. If you have begun to enjoy the mind settling in every situation, there is no longer any need of a path. Medicine is for those who are ill. If health has begun to return, then don’t even talk of medicine. Now, forget the medicine—don’t go near it. For medicine helps when one is sick; if one is healthy, medicine harms. Medicine is poison.

You ask, ‘Now, whether in kirtan, in meditation, or by action, I take delight!’
Then that’s it. Where delight begins, the resonance of the Divine begins.

Raso vai sah. The very form and color of the Lord is rasa. The Lord’s name is Rasa. The most beautiful name is Rasa. Call him Rasa. Wherever rasa is found, there the Divine is present. If rasa is felt, know that he is somewhere close by. Open the doors and windows and get ready to welcome him: he has arrived! Rasa is the hint of his footsteps, the jingle of his anklets. Rasa is the news of his presence. So if in work, in meditation, in prayer, in kirtan, in devotion, in music, in dance—if rasa has begun to flow in all—then the matter is settled. You have no need now to choose a path. Just keep going like this.

‘In every circumstance the mind becomes disciplined.’
Then don’t make this into a problem. This is the solution to the problem beginning to happen. This is exactly how it should be—exactly how it should be.

Now you ask: ‘Because of this I cannot choose a single path for myself.’
You have no need now. Rasa is your path. From every side, keep choosing rasa.

How strange your recognition:
you are met when the road is lost!
How strange your recognition:
you are met when the road is lost!
My eyes turned to stone—yet I sang
through so many tunes!
Right, left, above, below—
far and near—when did I ever find you?
Blessed the blossoms that bloom
only upon the stones—if you will bloom, you bloom!
How strange your recognition:
you are met when the road is lost!

Rasa is your path. And rasa means: to drown. Rasa means: to forget. Rasa means: to become so absorbed, so engrossed, that you disappear.

Rasa—the drunkard’s way. And the one who has known rasa finds the whole world become a tavern. Then one day you will discover that God himself, as the cupbearer, is pouring; he himself is making you drink. He is the one who pours; he is the one who drinks. The cup is his; it is filled with his rasa. In the decanter is his nectar. He himself is pouring. Everything is his.

Rasa is your path. There is no need to seek any other. Just remember this much: wherever you forget yourself, there the meeting with him begins.

Only the Achyuta can weave the great rasa-dance;
to his unmoving stillness the gopis’ very straying is bound.
In the diversity of the ragas, it is his Om that resounds;
in his lila the unmanifest, truth-bearing Ritambhara stands revealed.

This whole rasa-enchanted world—the rasa that runs as greenness through the trees, that showers as light from moon and stars; this world brimming with rasa—where a peacock dances, where clouds gather and rumble; this world full of rasa—whether in waterfalls, in rocks and cliffs, or in eyes—one and the same is revealing itself from every side and in every form! If you have learned to be absorbed in this, to dive into it, to become so spellbound that you are no longer there—only spellboundness remains, only absorption remains; you are not—the dance remains, but the dancer does not remain—then rasa will be attained. The song remains, but the singer does not...

Here I am speaking; if a speaker stands behind the speaking, there is not much essence in it. There you are listening; if a listener is present, there is no rasa in the listening. If here there is no speaker and there there is no listener, then the two tie into a single knot; they are bound, the wedding rounds begin! The one who speaks is no longer a speaker, the one who listens is no longer a listener. When neither the Master is a Master nor the disciple a disciple—when both are so merged into each other that it is not known who is who; when boundaries overrun one another, crack, dissolve—there, right there, is rasa. Rasa is your path!

A difference only seems to be there; it is not. It only appears so because the circumstances are different. The one who abused Buddha is not the same man who threw a shoe at me. I am standing exactly where I am. The man who insulted Ramana is not the same man who threw a shoe at me.

So the difference that shows up is not in the buddhas; it arises from the one who throws the shoe, who hurls the abuse, who commits the insult. Understand this distinction clearly.

If the man who threw a shoe at me had been the very one who abused Buddha, I too would have said, “I do not accept this gift.” And if it had been the same man who insulted Ramana, I too would have run after him with a stick.

This is the very meaning of awakened consciousness: that whatever is appropriate to the situation is allowed to happen without prior planning, without prearrangement. The enlightened are like mirrors.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin found a mirror lying by the roadside. He looked in it and said, “A miracle! Looks exactly like Father. But when did Father have his photograph taken? This is the limit! We never even knew Father had a photo taken—and Father is dead, too.” Then he said, “Good I found it lying here. Let’s take it home and keep it safe.” He went and hid it up on a shelf.

Now, in this world nothing can be hidden from a wife. With a keen, suspicious eye she kept watching that he had brought something and was hiding it. “Is it money? What is it—has he found some jewel?” When all were asleep in the afternoon she went upstairs, searched around, and took out the mirror. She looked. “Ah,” she said, “so this is the woman he’s after?” She thought he had brought some woman’s photograph home.

A mirror is a mirror: it only shows your own picture in it. Buddhahood means mirror. So what the Buddhas do—or what happens through them—understand rightly: they are not doing; only your picture is reflected. That is why it seems different. In truth, there is nothing different; it cannot be different. But the situation is different, because the other participant has changed. The real actor has changed. The Buddha is only a mirror. The act belongs to the one who abuses, who throws the shoe, who insults. He is the doer. These Buddhas are non-doers. So whatever reflection forms, forms; whatever happens, happens.

If you look this way you will be amazed. Then one more thing will become clear to you—incidentally, understand this too.

Krishna said something, Ashtavakra says something else, Buddha said something, Christ said something—yet they have not said different things. It only appears so because of different disciples. If Arjuna had been available to Ashtavakra, the Gita would still have been born; nothing else could have come. And if Krishna had met Janaka, then Ashtavakra’s Mahagita would have been born; nothing else could have come. If Jesus had spoken in India, to Hindus, he would have spoken like Buddha; but he was speaking to Jews, so a difference arose. The mirror changed. The mirror changed—not because of itself, but because of what stood before it. Inside the mirror there is no image. If no one is there, the mirror becomes empty.

Therefore, if Buddha and Jesus, Nanak and Kabir and Muhammad and Zarathustra were to meet, that is exactly what would happen there: nothing would happen. If you place a mirror before a mirror, what happens? Nothing comes into being. A mirror just reflects a mirror. They would all sit silently. They would find only themselves in one another. There would be no difference at all. Differences arise because of the disciple, the listener—because he is the real one there. The Buddha is gone; he has become the absolute void.

The last question—

But he must have felt like saying something. Often it happens: you feel like saying something and yet there is nothing to say. You feel like singing and no song quite forms. Something is hazy, indistinct; it doesn’t come clearly into your grasp, it will not be bound by words. In truth, whenever something significant happens, it becomes difficult to bind it in words. So what is one to do in such a moment? Sometimes one weeps; tears fall from the eyes—that too is saying something. Sometimes one laughs; through laughter something is being said. Sometimes one falls silent, dumbstruck; through silence something is being said. Sometimes one simply offers one’s pranam—what else to do?

For thousands upon thousands of years people have placed their heads at the feet of the enlightened—not for any other reason. Nothing else occurs to do. What else can one do? In the West there is no tradition of placing the head upon the feet—because there have not been many enlightened ones. This tradition arose because of enlightened ones. Because everything else feels empty—what can one say? Even when you say thank you, the word thank you feels hollow. Then there remains only one way: to place your whole head at the feet.

Have you ever noticed: when anger arises you take off your shoe and strike someone on the head. What are you doing? You are saying, “We put our feet upon your head”—symbolically. To place your foot upon someone’s head is a very difficult job—you’d have to jump and hop and break your limbs—so as a sign you put your shoe upon the head: “Here, your head and our shoe!”—when there is anger. And when a very deep reverence arises, then what will you do? Then you place your head at someone’s feet, saying, “Now what else can I do? Now there is nothing left to say.”

Himmatbhai has been with me for years—connected in many ways. At times in friendship, at times in enmity; sometimes with reverence, sometimes irreverence; sometimes on my side, sometimes in opposition—connected in every color! Thoroughly entangled! No half-baked affair. Connected with all the colors. And now, little by little, even all the colors have disappeared. Now only the connection itself remains.

What is mine that I could offer you today!
In the clay of a small lamp I blended your love;
Giving the wick your own breast, you graced my fate.
Even if I wave the aarti, it is your blessings I see—
Where are the lamps of my own life that I could light!
What is mine that I could offer you today!

The rhythm that ripples in my verses is your footfall;
To the jingle of anklets my melody bursts into voice, enraptured.
The feelings that frolic in the words—what power have I over them?
If it is only to soothe myself, I may sing!
What is mine that I could offer you today!

In every way he has come close to me. And this is how one comes close—by passing through all the seasons one comes near. The relationship of master and disciple is not of a single color; it is seven-colored. If it were of one color it would become insipid. With the one to whom you have joined in reverence, many times irreverence also comes—it is natural. With the one to whom you have tied your attachment, sometimes anger also arises—it is natural. To the one to whom you wanted to give your all, sometimes it seems: has there been a deception, was there a mistake, a slip? Sometimes worry arises, sometimes doubt arises. This is absolutely natural. In just such sun and shade the mind ripens.

Himmatbhai has ripened and his fruit has fallen. Now the play of sun and shade is no more. Now he has sat down by me in supreme repose. To express just this feeling it must have arisen in his heart to write and send: “Hamma ke pranam!” I know. Even if you do not write, I know. There are many who never write anything, and I know of them too. This is such an event that when it happens it is known. This event is so great. When you truly bow, then wave upon wave of you begins to speak—your sitting and standing, the blinking of your eye, the beat-beat of your heart begins to say: the happening has happened, the meeting has taken place!

Hari Om Tat Sat!