Maha Geeta #54

There is much commonality; the difference is very little.

What Lao Tzu calls Tao is exactly what the Vedas call Rta—ritambhara; or what Buddha called Dhamma, Dharma: the supreme principle that runs life, the principle of all principles, the hidden thread in the innermost core of this vast universe. As the beads of a garland are threaded on a single string, one thread holds all the beads together. There are thousands upon thousands of laws in the world; there must also be one supreme law that holds them all, otherwise everything would scatter, the garland would break. The beads are visible; the thread within is not seen. Nor should it be seen; otherwise the garland hasn’t been well made.

What is visible is what science seeks. So science discovers the theory of gravitation, the earth’s pull, gravity, the law of light, the law of magnetism and magnetic fields—thousands of laws. But within all these bead-like laws there must be one great law as well; otherwise who holds them together? Lao Tzu calls that great law Tao; the Vedas call it Rta, ritambhara; Buddha calls it Dharma. The devotee calls it God, the Supreme Self, Brahman. It is a matter of names.

Thus, Lao Tzu’s Tao is the ultimate law. And Ashtavakra’s witness is the method of knowing that ultimate law. When you awaken, you awaken in such a way that only the fire of awareness remains within you; not a single thought remains to smother or cover that fire. Not even a speck of ash remains—you become a glowing ember. For ash covers; when nothing remains within you to cover, you are utterly uncovered—open, awake, aware—then you will know that supreme law, the Tao, the Rta.

Lao Tzu’s Tao is life’s supreme principle; witnessing is the process, the instrument, the method, the path to know it.

And what I call tathata—suchness—is the state of one who has attained it, who has become one with the Tao, who has submerged into that supreme law. In whom and in that supreme law no difference remains; who has realized: that ultimate law is what I belong to—I am not other than it.

So tathata is the destination.

Understand it this way: Lao Tzu’s Tao is the principle; witnessing is the means; tathata is the attainment. The three are connected; they go together. Call it the Triveni, the confluence; call it the Christian doctrine of the Trinity—that there are three; or the Hindu Trimurti, the three forms of the Divine. This is the greatest triangle hidden within existence. Tathata is the achievement—you have arrived. Witnessing is on the path. And where you are to arrive is the Tao.

So the differences among the three are slight; their non-difference is great, because all three are linked to the same thing. And it is good to understand all three; don’t get entangled in only one. For the one who does not keep his eyes toward the Tao will never be able to attain tathata. The search has to be for the Tao; what is found is tathata. Because when the meeting happens—like the river falling into the ocean—it does not remain that the ocean is separate and the river separate. When the river meets the ocean, the river becomes the ocean. It had been seeking the ocean; it loses itself. The day the search is fulfilled, the river disappears and only the ocean remains.

It is the search for Tao. Or call it the search for truth—the search for truth. The search for Rta. The search for Dharma. But the day you come to know, that day you will become dharma-filled. That day you will become truth-filled.

How will you know?
The process of knowing is witnessing. If you awaken, you will know; if you remain asleep, you will not. Therefore the three are linked, and there is a little bit of difference among them. We should call it a distinction, not a division.

As long as the “I” is, there will be wandering. As long as you are, there is the search. You yourself are the wandering; no one else is making you wander. Disappear—and union happens. Keep yourself intact and you will remain stuck. This is the knot to open. And what is the knot? To become nirgrantha—knotless. The knot is precisely this: “I am.” Let this knot go. When this knot dissolves you will suddenly discover that what you have been seeking has always been enthroned within you.

Because of the search you were lost. In running after the search, what was within could not be seen. The eyes were blinded by the smoke of running. Running, you could see far away, but not what is near. Running, you could see the outside, but not the inside. For the inner, you need to sit with eyes closed a little while.

Ashtavakra has said: When the outer eyes are open, the inner eye remains closed. When the outer eyes close, the inner eye opens. Let these outer eyelids become a curtain; close your eyes to the outside for a little while, and within you will find what you have been seeking, what you thirst for. The lake is not far.

Kabir said: I burst out laughing— a fish, thirsty in the ocean! All who have known have laughed. Not only at you; they have laughed at themselves too—at their own past—because in the past they made the same mistake. Kabir’s fish too was once thirsty. Today there is laughter—knowing laughter: How mad I was! I was in the ocean and I was thirsty; I was in the ocean and I was looking for the ocean!

There is a reason behind it. The fish is born in the ocean, grows up in the ocean; it never gets a chance to go away from the ocean, so it can’t know what the ocean is. And sometimes a fish does land outside the ocean. There are fishermen sitting on the shore casting nets; sometimes they pull a fish out. Sometimes a fish leaps and falls on the sand, on the bank, and in its gasping it comes to know where the ocean is, where fulfillment is; it wriggles back and falls into the ocean again. But there is no “outside” to God. There is no shore where God sits with nets. Outside God there is nothing. Your fish cannot fall outside God. If it could fall outside, you would know. You would know how laughable it is—that we were surrounded by That and still we searched for It. But you cannot go outside; you will have to know while remaining within.

That is why it takes so long—lifetimes. The distant is easy to grasp; even a fool can understand it. The near is difficult; tremendous intelligence is needed. You have heard the saying: drums sound sweet from afar. What is close is not noticed; the sense of it fades. Why keep in mind what is already ours? And how remember what we have never lost? It is our nature. Hence the delay. If God were far away, seated on Gaurishankar (Everest), on the summit, we would have found Him. Our Hillarys and Tenzings would have reached. If He were on the moon, we would get there. But He is neither on the moon nor on Gaurishankar, neither on Mars nor on the stars. If He were far, we would reach—distance is our specialty. We devise so many means for the far!

A man tries far harder to go to the moon than to go within. Not only later—right from the start. The child no sooner is born than he stretches his hand toward the moon: “I want to catch it!” Children cry, “Mother, give me the moon.” From the beginning we set out on a journey outward, because when the eyes open, what is far is what is seen. And we never learn to close the eyes. When we close the eyes, we fall asleep. Eyes open: running, hustle and bustle. Eyes closed: sleep. Life runs between only these two.

Close your eyes and stay awake—that is meditation. Let the eyes be closed but don’t lose alertness—that is meditation. What else does meditation mean? Take a little from wakefulness and a little from sleep—and meditation is made of those two. From waking, take alertness; from sleep, take peace, silence, emptiness—blend them, and your bread is baked. Now you can be satisfied.

You ask, “How long will I keep wandering?”

As long as you wish! If you want to wander, there is no remedy. If you are enjoying wandering, what is there to discuss? There is a certain enjoyment in wandering.

Have you noticed? As soon as a child grows a little, he begins to say no to his parents. He says, “No, I won’t.” Parents say, “Don’t smoke”; he says, “I will smoke—and I’ll show you.” Parents say, “Don’t go to the cinema”; he surely goes.

Mulla Nasruddin has an orchard. Apples, pears, guavas grow there in such quantities that he can’t even sell them; the village doesn’t have so many buyers. They rot on the trees, or he gives them away free to the neighborhood. One day I saw five or seven children had slipped into his orchard and he was chasing them with a gun, abusing them. I said, “Nasruddin, you already can’t use the fruit; no buyers, no need to sell—you give them away. If the children pluck a few, what’s the problem? Where are you off to with a gun?” He said, “If I don’t chase them with a gun, they’ll never come again. This is an invitation! I run with a gun—watch tomorrow: today they are five or seven, tomorrow they’ll be fifteen. Tomorrow I’ll even fire in the air; then they’ll bring the whole school!”

Even a small child gets eager to go where one shouldn’t, to do what one mustn’t.

There is some fun in wandering—understand this. It is the fun of the ego. Wandering, you feel “I am.” Otherwise, how would you feel it? If you always say “yes,” how will you know your ego? Saying “no” draws a line around the ego. As the child grows, he starts saying no, fearing that parents will swallow him up: if they say sit and I sit, if they say stand and I stand—then where am I? Who am I? He defines himself by refusal. “Don’t smoke,” father says. “Exactly why I’ll smoke,” he says. He proves to the world, “I am!”

Psychologists say every child is searching for an ego. That is why the first story of the Christians is: God told Adam, “Do not eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge”—and Adam ate it. This is every child’s story. It is very true; it is the story of every Adam—of humankind. Look closely at yourself: you tasted the very fruits that were forbidden. Wherever there was a sign “No entry,” there you went. You took every risk—and you went, because without risk how would your ego be formed? If you go on saying only “yes,” if you remain obedient, how will the ego crystallize?

There is delight in ego; there is delight in wandering. You don’t really want to meet God, because meeting means dissolving. You are afraid. You do ask, “How long will I wander?” You ask if there is a path—perhaps so that if the path were known for sure, you could carefully avoid it! Lest by mistake, while thinking you are wandering, you end up going straight toward Him.

Rabindranath tells a story, a song: I sought the Divine for lifetimes, searched everywhere—He never appeared. Yes, sometimes there were glimpses—very far, at the edge of some star, His chariot passing, sometimes mounted on the rays of the sun, sometimes near the moon, sometimes among the stars—but always far, never near. And by the time I reached the star I was pursuing, lifetimes had passed; when I arrived, He had already left. Then again, somewhere far. This hide-and-seek went on.

Then one day it happened—I won. My victory-journey was complete. I reached His door, where a sign said: “The house of God.” In my joy I climbed the steps. I took the latch in hand and was about to knock when a thought arose: If He appears, then what will you do? Until now, the search itself was your support; you lived by it. That was your only joy, your one obsession. If He is found, then what will you do? Think a bit, for then nothing will remain to be done; until now your doing was to search.

So, says Rabindranath, I gently put the chain back lest it make a sound. Out of fear I slipped off my shoes so my feet would make no noise on the steps. And then I ran—and I never looked back. Now I know where His house is; I search everywhere except there.

The moment you meet the Lord, your doerhood’s fun will be finished. Because union with the Lord means the Great Death. Now you can understand why you are wandering: in wandering there is ego; in meeting, there is death. The ego must go; it must be surrendered at His feet. Tricks won’t work there—that you pluck a few flowers and leaves and offer them. No, you will have to pluck yourself and offer yourself. Your own flower must be offered. This ego is your flower. This asmitā, your self-sense, is your flower. Market-bought flowers won’t do; those stolen from others’ gardens won’t do. You yourself must be offered; your doerhood must be offered—that will be the oblation, the worship. If you do not have that courage, then you go on wandering—and go on asking. There is pleasure even in this asking: “See, I am seeking; what else can I do?”

“How long will I wander?” you ask.
Not a moment longer is needed. The very moment you decide, “I am ready to surrender,” in that very moment union happens—instantaneously.

“Will the heart’s longing be fulfilled or not?”

The heart’s longing... First ask: which heart? What heart are you talking about? Perhaps you are calling the throb of the ego the “heart”? If you call the beat of the ego the heart, the feeling of “I am” the heart, that longing will never be fulfilled. That heart will have to disappear; that pulse will cease.

Yes, there is a deeper truth: behind the ego, your Being is hidden; its longing will be fulfilled. But the two cannot be fulfilled together.

Man’s desire is this: the ego should be satisfied and union with the Divine should also happen. Man wants the impossible. He does not want to die, and he wants the bliss that comes only by dying. He does not want to lose, and he wants the incomparable rain of nectar that comes only by losing. He doesn’t want to be empty, he wants to remain full—and he also demands the fullness that descends into emptiness. Man is caught in this dilemma, ground between two millstones—both millstones you yourself are turning. Then you are crushed. See it clearly.

In my view, if you still relish the ego, then drop all this Divine talk; fulfill the ego. There is nothing wrong in being an atheist; there is nothing wrong in being a theist. This wavering in-between is a very perverse state. Most people seem like this to me: one foot in the boat of atheism, the other in the boat of theism. They don’t want to lose anything from either world. In this attempt to save both, they are crushed—and attain nothing. You are not yet ready inside. If you aren’t, say so clearly.

In a small school a priest, giving Sunday religious instruction, asked the children, “Those who want to go to heaven, raise your hands.” All raised their hands except one boy. The priest asked, “Didn’t you hear? Those who want to go to heaven, raise your hands. Don’t you want to go?” He said, “I do want to go—but not with this crowd. If these are the ones going to heaven, forgive me. They harass me here; they’ll harass me there too. I’m even ready for hell!”

You too want heaven—but on your terms. And your terms are impossible. You want to smuggle the ego inside—hide it in a bundle. “Without it, what fun will there be? The whole enjoyment of attaining belongs to the ego. And you say leave it outside—then who will enjoy?”

People come to me and say, “You say, ‘Disappear.’ If disappearing brings peace, then what’s the point? We came to heal the illness; you say eliminate the patient. If the patient is gone, what’s the use?” I understand them. In the spiritual realm, the patient is the illness; they are not separate. You are the illness. A man is even ready to remain in misery, provided he can go on being. It is this obstinacy that traps you. The heart’s longing can indeed be fulfilled—but whose heart are you speaking of?

The sun-gifted spectacles slipped from the hand onto the road—
like our relationships,
the shards all turned lifeless.
No sooner had the golden days arrived than they were gone;
time’s villain won,
life turned into tragic films.
Fists clutching emptiness,
ripeness blotted with ink,
the forecasts of dreams never returned—
we went out seeking green.
On this side of the glass curtain
the suffocation of breath grew vivid;
binding diagrams into the gaze,
the ego trembled like a touch-me-not.
Hands that had reached the season in full
suddenly melted—became air.

These hands of yours—reaching toward the Divine—will melt into air. If with these very hands you want to grasp God, He will not be found. With these hands you can grasp only things, because these hands are made of matter—earth, air, water. They can hold earth, air, water. If you want the Divine, you will have to stretch the hands of consciousness—other hands. If with these eyes you want to see God, these eyes will go blind; that Light is too great—they will be dazzled. These eyes are made of skin; they can see only skin-deep, not beyond. To see the Divine, another eye must open—an eye not made of skin. If with these feet you want to reach the Divine, abandon the hope; this journey won’t be completed. These feet are made to walk on earth; they are of the earth, and do not go beyond it. You will need other feet—the feet of meditation. Not of body, not of mind—of meditation.

Until now, whatever you have known with these hands is what comes and goes.

No sooner do golden days arrive than they are gone.
Happiness hardly arrives before it slips away. With this earthen body, whatever comes into your grasp is momentary.

No sooner do golden days arrive than they are gone.
Enter by one door, and out the other—guests never linger.

But the Divine is the guest who, once arrived, never leaves. For that, new doors must be made. The doors with which you have welcomed the world’s guests—welcomed and bid them farewell—those doors won’t do. A new doorway of consciousness must be found.

The forecasts of dreams never returned—
we went out seeking green.
With the heart by which you beat in this world, have you ever found greenness? Ever?

The forecasts of dreams never returned—
we went out seeking green.
Did anything return? Only desert comes to the hand.

The Divine is the ultimate greenness, the eternal spring. To taste that Eternal, you too must give birth to the eternal within. Become a little like the Divine—only then can you meet Him. And becoming like the Divine means: your ego-sense dissolves, your boundary breaks, your circumference falls apart, your center disappears. Become as if you are not. Let the “no” within you be exhausted, and let only the sound of “yes” remain.

This is what I mean by “theist” (astik). My meaning is not “one who believes in God,” for millions believe in God and I see no theism in them. They go to temples, mosques, gurudwaras—and have nothing to do with true theism. I have seen atheists who are truly theistic—who never even mention God. So do not define theist by God. I define a theist as one who has said “yes” to life, who has stopped saying “no.” Call it tathata, call it witnessing, call it acceptance—supreme acceptance. One who has learned to say “yes” to life. As his “no” drops, the ego drops in the same measure. Your ego is the pile of your negations. Wherever you said “no,” there a line of ego was drawn. “No” is atheism; “yes” is theism.

Say “yes” to life—unconditionally. Then you will find the heart’s longing fulfilled, for sure. It is meant to be fulfilled—otherwise it would not arise.

This thirst within you for the Divine would not be, if the Divine were not. Have you ever seen in life a thirst for what does not exist? If there is thirst, there is water; before thirst, water is. If there is hunger, food is; before hunger, food is. If love arises, there is a beloved, a lover; even before love, they exist. For every thirst that arises within you in this world, the means to quench it is somewhere. If there is thirst for the Divine, that itself is proof that the Divine is. Trust your thirst. Say “yes” to it. Have faith. And plunge entirely into your thirst—so wholly that only thirst remains and you do not. When you are gone, He arrives. Your going is His coming.

Yes, it is an illusion. That answer is so true that it cannot be an illusion. Understand the truth of this answer. If it were only a dream, such an answer would not have come. It did not come from your mind.

Naturally, your mind’s desire is always that what you are seeing should be true. The dream was sweet; it was tailor-made, exactly to your liking. What more could you want? The dream was simply your longing spread out. Your whole wish would be that what is happening be true: that I really lifted my eyes from the picture, looked at you, and gave you my word to provide what you asked for. What else could you want!

So the final answer did not come from your desire. You must have been taken aback when that answer came—just as those who are listening now burst out laughing. They too didn’t expect such an answer. The answer is so true it cannot be yours. I am not saying it is mine; I am only saying it cannot be yours. It did not come from where you ordinarily are; it came from beyond that. It rose from a depth in you with which you are unfamiliar.

My picture only served as a symbol. You fixed your eyes on it; that became the pretext. All images are pretexts. Through them you take a dip into your own unconscious. By gazing and gazing at the image, your ordinary conscious mind settles, and then messages begin to arise from your unconscious. Naturally, those messages feel as if they are coming from somewhere else—because you are not acquainted with those depths and don’t recognize them as yours. Your own inner being has spoken. It is you who spoke—but from a place within you where you have not yet made any acquaintance.

There are many provinces within you still untouched, where you have never gone. You have never inspected the whole house of your being; you camp in the porch and take it to be the house. Inside, door opens upon door. There are depths upon depths, cellars beneath cellars. The voice came from within you. When a devotee stands absorbed before an image and hears a voice, Sufi fakirs say: God spoke. God does not speak. And yet, in a certain sense, only God speaks—for your innermost depth is the divine.

The image is a pretext. Kirtan, bhajan, prayer—these are pretexts. They are supports to quieten the active mind. Because of your active mind, even when a voice arises from your depths it cannot reach you—you are so full of noise. That faint, whispering voice gets lost in your parrot-house; there the drums are beating. The divine whispers; it does not shout. And even if it shouted, you would still not hear, because your ears are so full of noise, waves of thoughts are surging within you; you are so busy.

Have you noticed: if you suddenly sit quietly, you begin to hear the clock ticking on the wall, the beating of your heart, even the coming and going of the breath. Sit in silence and you can hear a pin drop. If a snake slithers somewhere in the garden, you catch the faint rustle. A slight breeze trembles the leaves, and even that tremor is felt consciously. But when you are busy, besieged by anxiety, buried under clouds of thought, mountains can crumble, thunder can crack the sky, and you will not know.

You only know in the measure that you become silent.

So for thirty minutes you contemplated my picture and you became quiet. Your gaze grew one-pointed. All other thoughts moved away; only the picture remained. You were spellbound, absorbed, and then, from your own deep unconscious, a voice began to arise. It will seem to come from outside. And since you were so intensely occupied with my picture, that voice borrowed the picture as a vehicle; through that image it manifested to you. It is only a support. I did not speak; you spoke.

And the proof is that what you spoke came from the right place. Because you asked, “This isn’t an illusion, is it?” and “I” replied: “Yes, it is an illusion.” If I had said, “Yes, it is true, not an illusion,” then there would be the fear that your desire had spoken, your imagination had spoken, that you had made it say exactly what you wanted to hear. That would have been illusion. This may sound very paradoxical.

I say, if I had said, “Yes, it is true,” it would have been illusion. And because I said, “Yes, it is an illusion,” therefore it is true. Try to understand.

Your dreams too are not sheer illusion. In your dreams it is you who speak; that’s why psychologists probe dreams. They don’t rely on your waking state; they ask, “What do you dream?” Because in waking you have become so dishonest that nothing can be trusted. You don’t only deceive others; the deception doesn’t stop there—you deceive yourself. It is not only that you have convinced others that you are very virtuous; you have convinced yourself too. Even a thief walks around believing that his theft is for some noble cause—perhaps for equal distribution of wealth; he is a socialist! Man is skilled in finding the best reasons for the worst of his acts.

Hitler killed millions, and yet inwardly he was a great holy man—“holy,” meaning he had convinced himself that he was holy. He had all the proofs ready. Think of it—what were his proofs? Hitler didn’t smoke: a sign of a saint. He didn’t eat meat. What more do you need? A perfect Jain, a vegetarian—more Brahmin than the Brahmins; because many Brahmins eat meat somewhere, fish somewhere. Kashmiri Brahmins… more Brahmin than Nehru himself. Bengali Brahmins eat fish. Hitler didn’t eat meat, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink. He rose in the Brahma-muhurta before dawn, never slept late. What more is needed? Now the license has been granted: Kill! Now he is a saint. What more certificate is necessary?

And he is killing for the welfare of the whole world. He persuaded himself that as long as Jews exist, evil will exist; once Jews are gone, evil will end. Jews are sin itself, a leprous blot on the chest of the world, they must be wiped clean. He convinced others, and he convinced himself.

You may be startled, because you are far from this—you are neither Jew nor anti-Jew. It looks like sheer stupidity. But you too persuade yourself in the same way. Hindus think: as long as Muslims exist, the world will be bad. Muslims think: as long as Hindus exist, the world will be bad. Both have persuaded themselves.

Whatever man wants to believe, he believes. Whatever he wants to do, he does—and then finds noble pretexts. He sugarcoats the poison; then it goes down easily. You can swallow a poison pill because it tastes sweet—at least for a while; what happens later, happens later.

Psychologists say, your waking cannot be trusted; we have to enter your sleep. There your control loosens; the effect of rehearsed lies diminishes. So a man may walk like a saint while awake—eyes to the ground, never lifting his gaze toward a woman. But look into his dreams—there he may be watching naked women. Saints often see women in dreams; the un-saintly do not. The un-saintly have seen so much in the open that they are bored. They dream of taking sannyas, of carrying a begging bowl, of chanting—beating the cymbals. The non-ascetic dreams thus, because that is his unfulfilled longing.

It is the unfulfilled desire that becomes dream. The dream is yours. What you have repressed surfaces in dreams. Even a “false” dream is not utterly false, for it gives some indication about you.

You may live very simply outwardly, and become an emperor in your dreams. Then reflect on the dream: your simplicity is a deception. You may be very nonviolent in daily life—straining water before you drink, not eating after sunset, a vegetarian—and in the night you rise in a dream and cut someone’s head off. Then heed the dream; it is telling the truer tale. It is saying: This is the reality; what you have put on above it is not of much use.

Swami Sardar Gurudayal once told me a dream. In the dream he and Swami Anand Swabhav lost their way in a dense forest; they were thirsty and hungry. Suddenly they were overjoyed: a hut with a signboard—Annapurna Hotel! Here, in the jungle! Where tribals roam naked—what sort of Annapurna Hotel could this be! Below it was written: Immediate Service. They ran in. A naked tribal woman welcomed them. They were a bit startled—what kind of hotel is this? In America there are hotels with topless waitresses; but here there were no clothes at all. Not only was the top missing—nothing was on. “Two cups of tea,” they said. Instantly two cups appeared.

Swabhav took a sip and said, “There isn’t enough milk.” And what did the woman do? She drew a stream of milk from her own breast into the cup. And out of Gurudayal’s mouth burst: “Wah Guruji ki Fateh, Wah Guruji ka Khalsa!” And with that he woke up.

When he came to tell me the dream I asked, “Everything else is fine, but why did you say, ‘Wah Guruji…’?” He said, “Now you understand: the Guru saved me. If Swabhav hadn’t asked for milk, I was about to ask for hot water!”

Do you see? The Guru saved him!

Your dreams are yours. They are your truths. What keeps slipping and sliding inside your mind takes shape in dreams, assumes a form. Reflect a little on your dreams. A spiritual seeker should reflect much on them. You can skip a diary of your waking, but a dream diary is precious. Every morning, write down your dream—even if the meaning is not at all clear. Slowly, it will become clear. And if it doesn’t, that itself means you have so deceived yourself that you can no longer see the meaning of your own dreams; your eyes have become that distorted. Still, keep writing. Little by little, a clarity will come; images will stand out.

And if you slowly learn to understand your dreams, your awareness of your own personality will grow deep. A time may come when even in the dream you can keep a small flame of awareness that “this is a dream.” The day that awareness arises, dreams cease. And the cessation of dreams is a great revolution.

When dreams cease, galitadhi—his intellect has melted. Then for the one whose dreams stop at night, thoughts stop in the day. The roots have been cut. Daytime thoughts are like the leaves; nighttime dreams are like the roots. When both dreams and thoughts are gone, that which is, is truth.

So the answer you heard—“Yes, it is an illusion”—is just right, and it has come from a great depth. My advice—Dev Niranjan has asked—is: continue this experiment. Keep meditating on the picture for thirty minutes daily. Your unconscious has spoken to you. A key has accidentally fallen into your hands. Don’t lose it casually. Much more will speak from the unconscious. Gradually you will become skillful in understanding its language. And that skill is a great support, a great help, on the path.

I only want to tell you that the final chord of your vision—that’s what I call it, even though you saw it while awake—is very significant.

I have heard: just as in Hindi-speaking regions the tales of Akbar and Birbal are popular, in Andhra Pradesh similar stories circulate about Viswanatha Satyanarayana. A great Telugu author dedicated his massive book to him. Satyanarayana looked it over and said, “A very mediocre book.” The author returned home heavy-hearted and told his wife what Satyanarayana had said. She asked, “How long did he look at your book?” “Five or six minutes,” he replied. She said, “Then your book is certainly important. If it took Satyanarayana five or six minutes to understand that it is worthless, it cannot be an ordinary book.”

The dream after which the answer came—“It is all illusion”—is no ordinary dream; it is extraordinary, because it contains a declaration of truth. A dream that calls itself a dream has brought a great message. It has given you a direction. Now make this your daily meditation. Day by day the depth will increase; day by day new layers will open.

Sometimes a method falls into your hands all of a sudden. And a method that comes to you accidentally is often more effective, because it harmonizes more with your nature—you have discovered it yourself. A method given from outside may or may not fit, but one that arises from within is bound to be in tune.

In this century there was a very strange man in America: Edgar Cayce. A method settled in him gradually—suddenly, really.

A man was ill; Cayce was a small boy then. The man was near death. The boy loved him very much—a neighbor who would play with him and take him around. The doctors had said he would not survive. The boy was deeply distressed. What could he do?

He sat by the man’s cot and began to cry. Crying, he dozed off, almost into a faint. In that stupor he spoke. The man on the cot heard him. What the boy said in that swoon was remarkable: he named a medicine. The child knew nothing of medicines. He named a medicine the sick man himself had never heard of. And in that semi-conscious state he said, “If you take this medicine, you will be cured.”

The man sat up. He asked his doctors. They said, “We’ve never heard of such a medicine, but it should be looked up; it may exist.” The medicine was found—not in America, but in England. And taking it, the man recovered.

A key had fallen into Cayce’s hands. Thereafter, all his life, he treated millions. He knew nothing of drugs. He would sit by a patient, close his eyes; after a while his body would tremble and fall. Then you could ask, “This man is ill—what will cure him?” Sometimes he named medicines that had not yet been invented—were developed a year or two later. And as soon as the patient took that medicine, he was cured.

People asked Cayce, “How do you do it?” He said, “I don’t know. I don’t do anything. I become utterly unconscious. In that unconsciousness, something happens.”

Cayce would descend into his unconscious. The incident was accidental, but it changed his whole life—and not only his, it changed the lives of thousands upon thousands; it helped them in countless ways.

What has happened to you is that a key has come into your hand. Use it. It may well turn out to be the very path of your self-realization.

Be honest. If no answer arises from within, say: I don’t know. Do not wobble an inch away from truth. If you don’t know, say so. If it’s not known, it’s not known—what can you do? And if I give you an answer, it still won’t become your knowing. It will be my answer. If I tell you, “You are Brahman, you are the Divine”—what will that change? You’ve heard all this before. I say to you every day, “You are the soul!” What does that do?

No, that answer won’t work, because it came from someone else. A blessed hour has arrived in your life—you have gone missing. Half the event has happened. The significant half has already happened: your old address has begun to be forgotten. Good. The junk is gone. Now the real answer will be born within you. Wait a little. If you hurry now, you’ll again pick up an answer from outside. It’s only just now that you got rid of outside answers—that’s why you feel missing.

Your father told you your name. Your mother said your address was this. Your school, your teachers, your friends and loved ones told you who you are. They defined you. It was borrowed. It was from outside. You knew nothing. Outsiders hammered into you your name, religion, caste, country—stuck all the labels on you—while inside you stayed blank. You had no idea who you were. Someone said your name is Ram, your religion Hindu, your varna Brahmin—Chaturvedi, or Dwivedi, or Trivedi—everything was told to you. All sorts of labels were pasted on the box from the outside. The box is empty within. It knows nothing; inside there’s a void. For these labels you fought and died; quarreled, tangled with all and sundry! Someone shoved you and you noticed his label said Shudra; the brawl began. You—a Brahmin! It’s only the difference of labels. His says Shudra, yours says Brahmin. You were deluded by labels. You were well cheated. Someone said you’re a Hindu, so you became a Hindu; another said you’re a Muslim, so you became a Muslim. Whatever anyone said, you believed.

Through meditation, by sitting here near me, in satsang, slowly your junk has been removed, the labels have fallen off. Now anxiety arises, because now you feel empty. You were empty even when the labels were on; only now you’ve come to know it. So you’re in a great hurry. You want me to write something on this box. If I write again, it will be the same story—again written from outside.

This time, stop. Don’t rush. Wait. Let the answer come from within, the way a seed cracks and the sprout comes from within—so too, let yourself crack and let the sprout arise from inside. Let your tree bloom. Let flowers appear. Those flowers will be your answer. Before that there is no answer. Before that, all answers are futile.

You ask: “When the world questions us, what should we say?”

Say exactly what your reality is. Say that all the labels have been peeled off; I am no longer Hindu, nor Indian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist, nor Sikh, nor Parsi. Even my name is only makeshift. Call me Ram or call me Rahim—either will do. My name is provisional.

You see, when I give sannyas I change the name. I change it only to show you that a name is merely makeshift. Any name will do. It’s functional, for getting things done. Without a name, life in the world would get awkward. How would the postman find you without a name? How would anyone write you a letter? If you go to the bank, how will you open an account without a name? It would be troublesome. It’s practical. A name is a practical truth, not an ultimate truth. So I change it—just to remind you: see, this old name can be changed in a single instant. It has no intrinsic value. Here is a new one; use it for now. You used the old one for thirty or forty years; you had identified with it. I slide it away. Only so you can see: oh—any name serves. It makes no difference. A, B, C, D would do. Even a number would do.

And there’s a real risk that, given how numbers are increasing in the world, soon names won’t suffice; we’ll have to keep numbers, as in the military. Names repeat endlessly. There’s a limit to names. The same names again and again—it creates confusion. With small populations it was fine. For such vast numbers, where will new names come from? So, numbers...

Numbers will do as well. B-3001—fine. A-2005—fine. What difficulty is there? In a way it will be good. B-10003 is more pleasant. Then you can’t tell Hindu or Muslim or Christian. You can’t tell whether one is Indian or Chinese or Japanese. It’s purer, less distorted. Whether Brahmin or Shudra—nothing shows. That would be good.

This is why I change your name—to remind you that a name is not a valuable thing, not a possession. It’s a play. I change it playfully. That’s why I make no big arrangements either.

Some people come and complain: “You give sannyas just like that! Elsewhere, when initiation happens, there’s such band and brass, welcoming ceremonies, chariot processions, festivals, crowds gathered. You give it just like that!” I tell them: I want to make sannyas a play, not a seriousness! I don’t want to make it an ornament for your ego. Otherwise sannyas is no longer sannyas. If bands and drums play, those who want bands and drums will take sannyas. A procession goes out, people touch your feet, put garlands on you, tell you how blessed you are—what great merit you must have earned to embark on this journey. “We are poor sinners, still rotting in the world; gutter-worms! Look, you’ve started flying in the sky; you’ve become a swan!”—those who want their ego worshipped will surely go where such worship is.

As I see it, if people stopped giving so much respect to sannyasis, ninety-nine out of a hundred would return to the world. They are stuck there for the respect. So I keep sannyasis utterly ordinary, as in a play—no welcome, no ceremony; quietly your name is changed—no one hears a whisper. Your clothes are changed—no one hears a whisper. And I expect no special conduct from you either, because special conduct always becomes an ornament for the ego. I say: no harm—eat in a hotel if you like. A sannyasi says, “We eat in a hotel? Never! Special food must be prepared for us. A Brahmin woman must grind and cook, everything purified, then we will eat. We are not ordinary folk!”

No—I want to make you completely ordinary, so ordinary that no line of ego can be traced within you. Live just as everyone lives. No specialness.

That’s why you feel you’ve gone missing. The old name is gone. The old address is gone. The old caste and clan are gone. And I have made nothing new. I have given you nothing new. I have left you empty. Because in just this emptiness your seed will split and the sprout will rise. You want me to give you something. If I give you something, I am your enemy. What I give will sit on your chest like a stone. You will cling to it. It will become your address. And again you will miss self-knowledge.

For self-knowledge there must be waiting. Until it is known, if anyone asks, say: Forgive me; whatever I did know has proved false, and I am awaiting whatever is true. When it comes, I’ll come and inform you—if it ever comes. If it never comes, forgive me. Accept me as I am—missing.

Remain honest. Remain authentic.

No one taught us to be authentic. We answer questions whose answers we do not know. A father tells his son: never lie. The son asks, “Is there a God?” and the father says, “Yes, there is!” Will you ever speak a bigger lie than that? Do you know God exists? With what swagger do you say it? How badly you are killing this innocent boy’s honest question! There was truth in his question; your answer is sheer falsehood. You know nothing. And sooner or later the son will know you knew nothing. Then his reverence will break.

As I see it, if children can’t revere their parents, the children are not at fault; the parents are. You are not worthy of reverence. You have told so many lies...

I had a teacher. In school he taught that one must speak the truth. One day I was at his home, doing some math he had given. A man knocked at the door. The teacher told me, “Go and say I’m not at home.” I was in a quandary. He says, “Speak the truth,” and today he says, “Say I’m not at home!” So naturally I found a middle path between the two. I went and told the man, “Listen, he is at home, but he says to say he is not at home. Now you decide.” Because he also told me to speak the truth, I cannot tell a lie; and what he told me, I must tell. That is what he said; I added nothing. So I’ve put the whole matter before you—now you understand.

The teacher was very angry. “Didn’t I tell you to say I’m not at home?” I said, “I said it.” He said, “Who told you to add that I told you to say it while I’m sitting at home?” I said, “In school you always say to speak the truth. If you say, ‘Tell lies,’ shall I start doing that?” He was very uneasy. He never forgave me. After that day, even in school if I looked at him, he would avert his eyes.

How will reverence arise? A father tells his son not to lie, and then speaks such blatant lies! Perhaps he thinks he’s speaking for the child’s good. Perhaps that’s why he says, “Yes, there is God,” lest the child become an atheist. He thinks he is speaking for the child’s welfare. But can a lie be in anyone’s welfare? However much it may appear to be, it cannot be. What is in welfare is truth. What is true is what is beneficial. Beyond truth there is no well-being; beyond truth there is no auspiciousness.

So do not say anything other than your actual state. Say: I feel empty. The old address is lost. I do not yet know the new. If it comes, I will tell you. If it doesn’t, what can I do?

Living by this truth is what I call sannyas. Not asserting other than what is, is sannyas. Accepting what is, as it is, is sannyas.

What’s the danger? What’s the trouble? Your trouble is that people will think you are ignorant. The one who is asking wants to know: tell me where you come from, who you are, where you’re going. He sees your ochre robes and thinks a mahatma has arrived. He doesn’t know my mahatmas are of a very different kind! This is not the old sham. The old sannyasi I call a curse. This is a different kind of sannyasi—one who lives in utter freedom and spontaneity. There is no external imposition upon him. His inner rhythm alone is his order. His inner discipline is his only discipline.

I gave you sannyas not so that by remaining a sannyasi you’ll someday be liberated. In giving you sannyas, I have already liberated you. It is a state of a free, unburdened mind. People won’t understand it. There’s no need that they should. Why depend on people’s understanding?

I understand your hitch. When people ask you, “Who are you? What is your nature? Where do you come from? Where are you going?”—they are asking about great knowledge, about Brahman-knowledge. Your heart, too, wants to answer in terms of Brahman-knowledge—who doesn’t enjoy being thought wise! And you’re in a bind, because Brahman-knowledge hasn’t happened yet.

So you ask me: “When the world questions us, what should we answer?”

It isn’t the world’s question that is pricking you like a thorn. What pricks you is this: if you answer, it will be a lie; if you don’t, you’ll be taken as ignorant.

I tell you: accept that I am ignorant. I want my sannyasins to be so courageous that they can accept: I am ignorant. So courageous that they can accept: I am a sinner. So courageous that they can accept: the limits that bind ordinary humans bind me as well; I am not special.

And this will be your specialness. This will be your new form. If you are ignorant, say: I am ignorant; I don’t know; I am utterly ignorant. What sting is there in ignorance? The truth is: your ignorance is more pure, more innocent than your so-called knowledge. Your so-called knowledge is borrowed and stale; taken from others. Ignorance is yours. At least it is yours! At least it is your own! Darkness it may be, but it is yours. That light belongs to someone else’s lamp. Don’t rely on it. He may blow it out, or walk off down another path. The darkness is yours. Do not claim otherwise.

And I want to say something else, more profound. There are things that never become “knowledge.” That is precisely why life is mysterious. The Supreme never becomes knowledge—it becomes experience. You do come to know—but you cannot make it known. You get to know—but you cannot give it to another as information. That ultimate state of truth—rit, tathata, tao, witnessing—can be experienced but you will not be able to say what it is. It is sugar to a mute tongue. The taste arises; the lips remain closed.

So do not be alarmed. Stand quiet and silent. If nothing at all comes to say, then that is exactly your saying: stand quiet and silent.

Buddha often fell silent. People asked questions. Such a thing had never happened. India is the land of knowers. Here pundits are everywhere. Here even the man at the paan stall does not descend below Brahman-knowledge. Everyone here rides Brahman-knowledge. No one is below it. Here Brahman-knowledge is so ordinary there’s no reckoning of it. Buddha was a very courageous man. In this land of pundits, of knowers, of the so-called religious, Buddha fell silent. Many times he would remain silent. Someone would ask, “Is there God?” He would be silent. See Buddha’s courage! He could have answered anything. After all, fools were answering—what difficulty would Buddha have had in answering? He could have said anything. But Buddha would remain utterly silent—just looking at the man. The man would say, “Did you not hear? I ask: is there God or not? If you know, say so. If you don’t know, say so.” Still Buddha remained silent.

He left it to the man: think whatever you want—but this is a matter that cannot be said. And he would not even consent to saying that it cannot be said. Because, said Buddha, regarding what cannot be said, even saying “it cannot be said” is pointless. What is the use? That too is saying something, isn’t it? It attributes at least one quality: that it cannot be expressed. A bit of definition arises—even if negative. It becomes a hint—if not direct, then indirect; if not by the front door, then by the back door. If you say, “Nothing can be said about it”—you have already said something about it.

Buddha is utterly honest. He remains silent. Once in a hundred, someone would be intelligent enough to understand Buddha’s silence—touch his feet—be overwhelmed with bliss. But that was rare. Ninety-nine would think, “Ah, so he hasn’t realized yet! Poor fellow is still wandering. Our village pundit is better than this. In broad daylight he shouts, ‘Yes, God exists, and God created the world. If you don’t accept, I’ll produce proof from the Vedas. And if you create more trouble, I’ll raise a stick. I’ll smash your head—accept by argument, or be persuaded by the club!’”

After all, what are Hindus and Muslims doing when they fight? What doesn’t get proved by logic, they prove by cutting throats. Does truth get established by cutting off a head? If you kill someone, does that prove you were right? What has truth to do with that?

Still, once in a while there was someone who accepted Buddha’s answer of silence, understood, and became calm—saw this unprecedented event: Buddha fell silent. Such a thing had never happened.

Buddha added a new chapter to human history: that which cannot be said, don’t say. Say it by silence. Let silence speak. Then leave it to the other. If he thinks you are ignorant, that is his affair. Why be disturbed?

But I understand your hitch. If you cannot answer, people think: “Ah, so you are still ignorant! A sannyasi and still ignorant! Donning ochre and still ignorant!”

Say: I am indeed ignorant. Make no claim to knowledge. And I tell you: this acceptance of ignorance will become the manure that cracks your seed. This acceptance will become rain upon you. After all, what does the effort to prove to others that “I know” really mean? Only this: that my ego depends on others’ recognition. Ego wants the prop of the other. You cannot be a knower alone; you can be a knower only if someone says so. Go sit alone in the forest—are you a knower or ignorant? The animals and birds won’t ask, “Sir, have you attained knowledge of Brahman or not?” They won’t care. You need another human who says “knower” or “ignorant.” If someone calls you ignorant, accept it: you are right—that is my state. If someone calls you a knower, say to him: you must be mistaken, for I know nothing.

The Upanishads say: he who says “I know”—know that he knows not.
Socrates said: by all my knowing I have known only one thing—that I know nothing.

Be a Socrates! Learn a secret: there is no need to stand upon others’ opinions. The day you cease to care about others’ opinions, that day you are free of society. No one becomes free by running away from society! The one who runs away sits in the forest and still thinks about what society thinks of him. Passersby come and go, and he indirectly coaxes them to say what is being said in the village: has news spread that I have attained Brahman-knowledge? Has some excitement arisen in town? I’ve heard that when someone attains, even if he sits in the forest, people come searching. Tell me, when will the seekers of truth arrive?

Sitting there he still sips the juice of society inside. He wonders whether the President has announced a Padma Shri or a Bharat Ratna for him this year—here I sit a great seer, and still no news has come!

Even there, the unconscious mind keeps doing its social arithmetic.

No—that is not leaving society. And if someone comes and tells you, “Why are you sitting here for nothing? You’re being defamed there,” then you’ll be very hurt: “I’m sitting here alone, and still I’m being defamed! I’ve left everything, and still I’m being defamed! I’m meditating here; I’m no longer harming or helping anyone—and still I’m being defamed!” Then you’ll feel like becoming a Durvasa and cursing the whole society to hell.

One who does not take concern from society—whether society thinks well or ill—who says: “As you please. That’s your fun. Think good if you like; think ill if you like—whatever delights you”—one who pays not the slightest heed to social approval—that person is free of society. Then there is no need to go to the forest. Sit in the marketplace; society will not touch you. You have become like the lotus.

So I say to you: wait. Tighten the strings a little more. You need a little more tuning.

And tighten the strings, that I may sing the upper octave.
Give such a stroke, with the grace of the mizrab,
that silence resound with the call of notes,
that I may pour flame into cold molds.
And tighten the strings, that I may sing the upper octave.

Let not the pegs crack as I bend the meend and stretch,
let me not, with the goal so near, break my feet and fall,
let me raise sunlight in these drowsy, lidded nights.
And tighten the strings, that I may sing the upper octave.

Not a victim of the inner-outer duels,
not pasting the Mars-star over Saturn upon my face,
shall I go gazing at fallow earth asking what has rained?
And tighten the strings, that I may sing the upper octave.

Let me tighten loose relationships among themselves,
let me give dry arguments the sap of reverence,
let me grow soft grass upon stony paths.
And tighten the strings, that I may sing the upper octave.

Do not ask me for an answer. Say to me instead:
And tighten the strings, that I may sing the upper octave.

Where intellect falls to zero, Buddhahood is born. Intellect and Buddhahood are not opposing dimensions. From the ladder of intellect, the very step where you place your foot higher, Buddhahood begins. So do not take them as opposites; they are allies. They become antagonistic only when you cling to the ladder of intellect and declare, “I have arrived.” Then it becomes an obstruction; then the step ahead is opposed. The opposition does not arise because of intellect; it arises because of your clinging to intellect.

You are climbing steps. You put your foot on step number one and say, “That’s it, the house is reached, no need to go further.” Then your first step has turned against the second. It wasn’t against it; it was in favor, in support. The first step exists precisely so you can go to the second. But your clinging, your attachment, creates the hindrance. The step is not the opposition; your attachment can be.

Where intellect becomes quiet, becomes empty—where its line ends—Buddhahood begins from there. Intellect is very limited; Buddhahood is vast. Intellect is like standing at a window and looking at the sky. Even the sky seems to wear the window’s frame. There is no frame on the sky; but seen from behind the window, it appears framed. Then take a leap out of the window. The window does not tell you to stop; it opens toward the beyond. The window invites you: come out. It showed you a little sky—why keep standing inside? That little bit of sky was to give you the taste. Now why remain within? The window has given you an invitation: leave the window, come outside. A great sky awaits. If in so little you found such sweetness, how much more will you find in the vast?

When you listen to me, the intellect opens a little window. Don’t stop there. If just by hearing you tasted so much, imagine how much by knowing. If words gave so much, how much will the wordless give! If meeting someone and sitting near him made you intoxicated, what ecstasy will arise when the door opens within yourself! The whole tavern will be yours. I am only pouring cupfuls for you!

Mulla Nasruddin bought a tavern—thinking, why keep drinking at someone else’s shop again and again! Three drunkards decided: this won’t do; every day we come, we drink, we lose money, and he earns! Why not buy the place ourselves! The three pooled their wealth and bought the tavern. The day they bought it, they removed the old signboard and put up a big board: “The shop is closed forever.” When drinkers arrived, they asked, “What’s going on?” Nasruddin opened a window and said, “What did you think, that we bought it for you? Now the three of us will have fun. That’s enough! The shop is closed. We bought it so we can enjoy inside. No more selling and buying.”

When the tavern within becomes entirely yours… You cannot even imagine it yet. Even one ray entering you makes you tingle. Sometimes your string touches mine—only for a moment—and you sway. But when your whole vina vibrates in unison with the Divine, just imagine! A thousandfold, thousand upon thousand—imagine!

So intellect can give only a small glimpse. Do not stop there. Intellect surely gives a glimpse. Opposition arises only when you stop, cling, and declare, “Arrived!” It is like clutching a milestone that reads “Delhi,” with an arrow pointing ahead, and saying, “Here is Delhi; it’s written clearly!” You missed the arrow—or assume it was decorative. You sit hugging the red stone. Delhi doesn’t arrive that way. Delhi is far. Pay attention to the arrow. Every step bears an arrow pointing forward, because every step prepares you for the next. Intellect prepares you to go beyond intellect.

You also asked: The famous Gayatri Mantra of the Hindus seems like a prayer for this very intellect (dhi).

Here you need to understand that ancient languages like Sanskrit and Arabic are profoundly poetic. A single word carries many meanings. They are not mathematical languages. That is why they hold so much poetry. In mathematics, one thing must have only one meaning; if there are two, confusion arises. So mathematical language moves strictly within boundaries: one word, one meaning. In Sanskrit and Arabic a single word can have many meanings.

Now, “dhi” has one meaning as buddhi, intellect: the first step. And from dhi arises dhyana—another meaning, the second step. This is the wonder: Sanskrit is so fluid. There is a little dhi in buddhi; there is far more in dhyana. The word dhyana too arises from dhi; it is the expansion of dhi. Therefore how you understand the Gayatri depends on you—what meaning you draw from it.

Here is the Gayatri Mantra:
Om bhur bhuvah swah tat savitur devasya varenyam bhargo dhimahi yo nah dhiyah prachodayat.

“He, the Divine, is the protector of all—Om! More beloved than life-breath—bhur. The dispeller of sorrow—bhuvah. And of the nature of bliss—swah. The creator and mover of existence, the primal inspirer—tat savitur. Of the Divine endowed with transcendent qualities—devasya. Of that light, radiance, brilliance, glimmer, manifestation which is most worthy of our love—varenyam bhargo. Dhimahi—let us meditate.”

Now you can make two meanings here: dhimahi—let us think upon Him. That is the smaller meaning, the windowed sky. Or dhimahi—let us meditate upon Him: the larger meaning, the whole sky outside the window.

I would say to you: begin with the first, go to the second. Dhimahi holds both. Dhimahi is a wave that begins inside the window—because you are standing inside the window. If you ask pundits, they will say dhimahi means to consider, reflect, think. If you ask a meditator, he will say the straight meaning is: let us meditate. Let us become one with Him. That is, may that Supreme—yo—intensely inspire our capacities for meditation—nah dhiyah prachodayat.

Now again, it depends on you. You can render it as “may He inspire our intellects,” or you can render it as “may He awaken our meditative capacities.” I would ask you to keep the second in view. The first is very narrow; it is not the whole meaning.

Moreover, sayings like the Gayatri are highly condensed. Each word holds deep meanings. What I just gave you is according to the words. Then there is a meaning according to bhava, the feeling. For one who thinks with the head, I gave that meaning. For one who thinks with the heart, I give another.

For the pilgrim of knowledge, that meaning; for the pilgrim of love, another—equally true. This is the beauty of Sanskrit; likewise Arabic, Latin, and Greek. The meaning is not fixed, not solid—it is fluid. It changes with the listener; it becomes attuned to the listener. Like water poured into a glass takes the shape of the glass; poured into a jug, the jug’s shape; spread on the floor, it spreads like the floor. It has no fixed form—formless.

Now understand the devotional meaning:
“Like a child in a mother’s lap, I sit in the lap of the Divine—Om. I receive His infinite tenderness—bhur. I am completely safe—bhuvah. Within me, a soft, drizzling rain of delight is falling; I am choked with bliss—swah. My every pore thrills with His lovely light, His noor, and I am utterly enraptured by the endless beauty of creation—tat savitur devasya. The rising sun, the many-colored flowers, the twinkling stars, the fine drizzle, the murmuring rivers, the high mountains, snow-clad peaks, cascading waterfalls, dense forests, billowing clouds, the infinite heaving ocean—dhimahi. All this is His expanse. Let us drown in meditation on this. All this is the Divine. Clouds, waterfalls, flowers, leaves, birds, animals—everywhere He peeks through. Let us drown in meditation on this All-Seeing Divine; let us drown in the feeling. I place the string of my life into His hands—yo nah dhiyah prachodayat. Now I entrust everything to You, Lord. Wherever You lead, I will follow.”

A devotee will make such a meaning.

And I am not saying that only one of these is true and the others false. They are all true. On your step—wherever you are—take that meaning. But remember one thing: do not forget the higher meaning, because that is where you have to go, to grow, to journey.

Let at least something remain unexplained.
Hari Om Tat Sat!