Maha Geeta #58

First thing: I said, “The moment I give sannyas I set you free”; I did not say, “You become free.” How will my setting you free make you free? Without your cooperation, merely with my declaration, you will not become free. If you have fallen in love with your fetters, if your chains have begun to look like ornaments, and prison looks like home to you—then I may announce you are free, but that won’t put you under the open sky. My declaration is not enough; your cooperation is essential.

From my side you are already free. From my side there is no one unfree—no one can be unfree. Unfreedom is a dream; open your eyes and it ends. But you do not become free merely by my declaration. You begin to look for new excuses.

Now you are seeking this excuse: “Doesn’t this point to sanchit—that everything is bound by past karma, fixed?”

You want to dodge your responsibility, to evade your own participation. You want to say, “What can we do? Everything is fixed.” You want to escape—even from the cooperation. You want to avoid opening your eyes. For your closed eyes you are hunting for a thousand excuses.

The question is important; it concerns all: “You said that the moment you give sannyas you set us free...”

I say it precisely because you are free—not because my doing makes you free. Liberation is your nature. I am announcing your nature. Do not misunderstand my statement. Don’t think I am liberating you. You were already free; you had forgotten—so I remind you.

A true master does nothing but remind. He simply returns to you what is already yours. He awakens what you had taken as belief and tells you it was only a belief, a delusion, a lie. You had seen a snake in a rope; I bring a lamp and say, “Look carefully.” I say, “I am freeing you from the snake.” Does that mean there was a snake and I am freeing you from it? It means only this: there never was a snake; that’s precisely why you can be freed—otherwise how could you be freed? Even bringing a lamp would be pointless if the snake were real. In the dark, at least some doubt might remain that it could be a rope; with a lamp, if it were truly a snake, it would be even clearer that it is a snake. How would a lamp free you?

You cannot become free just by coming to a true master, because a master is only a lamp—a light. In that light, re-view your life. When the rope becomes visible, what should you say then: “You are freed from the snake”? Or, “It was known there was no snake”? You were frightened by a snake that never existed.

So I say: the moment I give sannyas I set you free. My work is complete. But I have not said that yours is complete. If your cooperation becomes total, the happening is complete. Where master and disciple meet in total cooperation, revolution happens. But that depends on when you are willing.

You don’t really want to be free. You keep inventing new arguments for bondage. You are very skilled at manufacturing excuses.

Now you ask: “But why does the life of a sannyasin not transform from the roots the moment he is freed?”

Now understand something even more important: sannyas or liberation has nothing to do with change. The very desire for change belongs to an unfree mind. You want to change yourself. Why? From where does this urge to change arise? You are the divine itself—there can be nothing higher. What was supremely excellent has already happened. Yet you want to change—you want to put a little makeup even on God; you want to do some touch-up, a bit of paint. You ask why there is no change.

Liberation has nothing to do with alteration. Liberation itself declares: there is nothing left to change; what is, is. Are you not hearing Ashtavakra? “As it is, so it is.” Who is there now to change? Who will change? For what will one change? Where will one change?

You ask why change does not happen. Then you have not understood the meaning of liberation.

Change is the ambition of the ego. You want to add a few moons to your stature. If wealth comes, you can strut. If position comes, you can strut. If neither comes, or even if it does but tastes hollow—then at least you want the arrogance of meditation, the pride of yoga, the vanity of saintliness: “Let me at least become a great soul!” But change isn’t happening! You still aren’t a great soul. Small things still catch you. Hunger comes, thirst comes, sleep comes—and Krishna says in the Gita that a yogi does not even sleep. Hunger, thirst, sweat, the sun feels harsh—then you conclude, “Ah, I still haven’t become a great soul; I still cannot sleep on a bed of thorns—so what liberation is this?”

You haven’t understood liberation. Liberation means the arising of the sense that as you are, you are perfect. Hunger will still come—but it will come to the body, not to you. That is the only difference. The difference is inner. Outside, no one may even notice—no whisper will go around. If word gets around outwardly about someone’s liberation, know that something is off—ego is once again exhibiting itself, making a racket: “Look, I have become a great soul!” Liberation does not even spread ear to ear. Liberation leaves your ordinariness untouched.

Your anxieties are strange! A gentleman came to me and said, “I’ve taken sannyas, but I haven’t yet given up tea.” Here we are talking about dropping desire; he is talking about dropping tea. What poverty of spirit! And if you do give up tea, what will you gain? Only tea will be gone. What will you attain? Some fools have taught you that giving up tea yields liberation. If only liberation were that cheap: stop tea and you’re free; stop smoking and you’re free! Many people don’t smoke—have they attained liberation? You will merely become like them. I am not saying you should smoke. I am not saying you should not smoke. I am only saying: smoking or not smoking has nothing to do with liberation. Do it or don’t—it’s your choice. These are unrelated matters. Whether you drink tea or coffee is irrelevant. Liberation is awakening. Before, you drank tea in sleep; now you will drink it awake. And if, in wakefulness, tea drops of its own accord—there is nothing to give up—you suddenly find the taste is gone, the charm has ended, then it is gone; no sense of “renunciation” will arise that you have sacrificed something.

By discarding the petty, you become only a petty renunciate—how will you become a great being? Your aims are petty: someone wants to give up smoking, someone tea, someone something else. Even if you give up these petty aims, you will remain petty. Then you will strut down the road hoping someone will touch your feet, because “the great man has given up tea.”

Take stock of your pettiness! You ask why life does not transform from the roots. What is wrong with life that it must be changed? I have seen nothing wrong. You should feel hungry—if you don’t, you are ill. You should feel thirsty—if not, you are ill. You will sleep. And whoever makes a bed of thorns and sleeps on it is mad, deranged. This body is yours, your temple; and you are laying it on thorns?

One who is harsh to his own body cannot be compassionate to others’ bodies. Impossible. If he could not be kind to himself, how will he be kind to another? You are violent. You are of a perverse disposition. You spread thorns and lie down on them. Then it will be your wish that the whole world lie on thorns. If the world refuses, you will devise a thousand means—sermons, arguments—to convince them: “Lying on thorns brings liberation—look at me lying! See how I’m cut and bleeding—come, you bleed too! It gives great bliss!”

Great bliss from lying on thorns! Whom are you deceiving? At most, lying on thorns will dull your sensitivity; your skin will become leathery; you will become rock-like. But the secret of life is to be like a flower, not like a rock. The secret of life is in softness, in tenderness, in the feminine. The more “hyper-masculine” you become, the harder you get; poetry drains from your life, sweetness drains, music drains, song is lost, the inner rhythm disappears.

Have you ever seen a man who sleeps on thorns exhibit true genius? Go to Kashi; you will find many lying on thorns—but do you behold genius there? Have you seen such a man reach the heights of an Albert Einstein, or a Beethoven, or a Tansen, or a Kalidasa, or a Bhavabhuti—or any such heights? Have the Upanishads been born from men lying on thorns? Have Vedic hymns arisen from them?

Look closely at these thorn-bedders: What do they create? What is their creativity? What comes from them? Only this: they lie on thorns. Is that sufficient to show gratitude to God? Is lying on thorns enough to express your “Ah!” to the divine? What a way to thank existence—life is given to you and you lie on thorns! God has given you a body like a flower and you are turning it to stone!

What will come of this? For what exactly do you want a “revolution from the roots”?

Life will remain as it is; it should remain as it is. Yes, one difference will happen—and that, in truth, is a revolution at the roots. “At the roots” means at the root. Tea cannot be at the root; neither can cigarettes, nor sleeping on beds or on thorns. Neither eating nor fasting is at the root. The root is witnessing.

A revolution at the roots means: what you used to do in sleep, you now do in wakefulness. Because of wakefulness, what is nonessential will fall away and what is essential will remain. But you neither bring anything in nor throw anything out by decision. Witnessing is the root.

Understand words carefully. You say, “A revolution at the roots hasn’t happened.” What do you mean by “at the roots”? Will you start walking on your head on the street? Because ordinary people walk on their feet; if you walk on your head, then a root-level revolution has happened! People eat food; you will start eating stones—then a revolution at the roots?

A revolution at the roots means: people are asleep, unconscious; you have awakened, you have become a witness. Now, when the body feels hunger, let it feel; the body eats, gets satisfied—you stand behind, silently watching. Hunger arises—you arrange for food; satisfaction comes—you remain the watcher. You become the seer.

But you are busy attempting little revolutions. Your so-called saints have given you very petty aims. Because of those petty aims, even if I give you the great sutra that you are free, you remain poor and beggarly. I hand you such immense wealth, yet you come and say, “This won’t drop; that won’t drop.” Who told you to drop anything? I didn’t. Someone else must have. Therefore your life is a mess, not clean. Even if you are my sannyasin, in truth you are not entirely mine; a thousand voices sound within you. What I constantly negate is still valued inside you. So your mind asks again and again: “Hasn’t the revolution happened yet?”

Make a list once—for yourself—of what you want this “revolution” to be. You will be surprised at the oddities you start writing—things with no value.

A gentleman came and said, “I meditate so much, yet my body keeps aging. A meditator’s body shouldn’t age!” These are your “root-level” revolutions! A meditator’s body shouldn’t age? What is wrong with old age? Whoever is young will grow old. A meditator too will grow old. A meditator too will die. The only difference: when he grows old, he remains a witness—knowing the one aging is not “I.” And when he dies, he dies awake—knowing the one that is dying was his body, not he. Death will happen. Otherwise Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Mohammed, Christ—none would ever have died. Being meditators, how could they? A meditator attains the immortal! Then he could not die, nor grow old.

You are entangled in falsehoods and have hoarded the trivial within. I try in every way to snatch these trivialities from you, and you hide them away in some corner.

In truth I am freeing you. I am freeing you even from “revolution” and from “change”; I am freeing you at the root. I am telling you: none of this is a matter of doing. As you are, you are good, wholesome, auspicious, beautiful. Accept this. Do not distort the natural ease of your life with pointless agendas. Do not devise methods for derangement. Don’t turn mad!

Ninety-nine of your so-called saints belong in madhouses—and if you call turning mad “revolution,” then at least don’t come to me. I have no interest in making you mad.

“You say that even after sannyas he lives in his old frame of mind.”

In what other state will he live? You take sannyas here, and will your body immediately turn golden? You take sannyas and will you instantly acquire the mind of a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna, a Christ? The mind is the mind. It will remain the mind. What changes? Only this: until now, the mind was the master; now you become the master. Until now, the body drove and you were dragged; now you will not be dragged by compulsion—you will move with awareness, with understanding.

Mind is mind. The mind is a computer, a mechanism. How will it change instantly? What is your mind? The essence of your life’s experience so far. As if you are writing an autobiography—recording everything—and one day you take sannyas. You open the book and say, “But my autobiography is exactly the same!” What nonsense are you talking? Your taking sannyas won’t alter what you have already written.

The mind is the past, the gone. It is the trace of what has been. Your taking sannyas won’t erase those traces; they are there. What is done is done. It is an indelible line. Only this will happen: you will startle awake and know, “By mistake I identified with the mind. This mind is not me. It is an instrument I have. When needed, I will use it.” To do arithmetic, you will need the mind. Even Mahavira cannot solve math without using the mind.

If I am speaking to you, I am using the mind; without the mind I cannot speak. Speech is a collection of the mind. Language is inscribed in the mind. I can say only what the mind has known and recognized in the past. The mind is a resource. But here is the difference: when I am sitting idle, not speaking to anyone, I am silent; the mind is quiet. Just as, when you aren’t going anywhere and sit in a chair, your legs don’t keep walking. Some people’s legs do keep moving; sitting on a chair they jiggle their legs. What does it mean? It means: either walk or sit—do one of the two. Don’t be like the washerman’s donkey—neither here nor there. If you are sitting, why move your legs? If you want to walk, walk—that too is fine; if you want to sit, then sit. Don’t get stuck in between. When you sit, you don’t move your legs because you know there is no need of legs at the moment. Legs are present, but you don’t use them. If you need to pick something up, you move your hand; if there is nothing to pick up, you don’t wave your hand.

When something needs to be thought, you use the mind; when nothing needs to be thought, you don’t use it. When something needs to be said, you use the mind. When there is no dialogue, no relationship to be made, nothing to be conveyed, the mind is at rest. Then the mind is not—it is switched off. You are in utter silence, wrapped in a deep tranquility. You are awake, in perfect awareness.

So the mind remains as it is; only your identification with it drops. You will no longer say, “I am this mind,” nor will you say, “I am this body.”

You say, “Sometimes he even falls below the ordinary level.”

What do you call “ordinary”? Your mind is full of condemnation. “Ordinary” is a cuss word for you—you are abusing the many. You are saying, “Below even the ordinary!” Ordinary people drink tea, smoke, go to the cinema! If you happen to go to a cinema, you feel, “I have sunk below the ordinary.” I have given you such freedom that I tell you: you cannot fall—there is no way to fall.

What do you mean by “ordinary”? You harbor deep contempt for the countless multitudes. Why do you want to be special? The desire to be special is the ego—what else? And in that desire to be special, you have mistaken sannyas for spirituality.

Old-style sannyasins come to me and say, “What are you doing—giving sannyas to ordinary people!”

I say: If God does not hesitate to create ordinary people, why should I hesitate to give them sannyas? And God creates many more ordinary people—you can see it. Specimens like you who think themselves special are rare—and I even doubt whether he “creates” them! I have never seen a sannyasin born; all are born ordinary—becoming a sannyasin is your doing.

When Abraham Lincoln became president of America, his face was not very handsome—rather homely. Someone asked, “You have become the president of America, but why is your face so ugly?” Lincoln replied, “As far as I can tell, God seems to like ugly people more—he makes many more of them than the beautiful. That appears to be his preference. That’s all I can say; I know nothing more. One in a hundred thousand he makes beautiful; the rest he makes ordinary. So God must love the ordinary.”

Perhaps God does make the beautiful now and then—but have you ever seen him make a sannyasin? All are born as ordinary children. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ—all are born like ordinary children.

God loves the ordinary—the natural, the simple. It is man’s ego that wants to be special.

Zen master Rinzai was sitting in his hut. A disciple said, “It’s been three years at your feet. Why am I not like you yet?” Rinzai said, “Look outside. Two pine trees stand there; one small, one large. One God made this way, one that way. But I have never seen any competition between them. The small one has never said, ‘Why was I made small?’ The big one has never strutted, ‘Stay in your place, little one! Look how big I am!’ I’ve never heard a dispute. He made me like me; he made you like you.”

Notions of big and small are human. Ordinary and extraordinary are human constructs. All are of one taste. If the same One dwells in all, who is special and who ordinary?

This feeling in you—that sometimes you sink below the ordinary—means you carry certain ideas of how a sannyasin “should” be: that a sannyasin should never be angry. Then anger happens—someone jostles you—and later you sit at home depressed: “What is this? I fell below the ordinary; anger happened! A sannyasin should not feel anger!” Then you have not understood my sannyas. I tell you: a sannyasin dissolves the ego—that alone makes one a sannyasin. Now you are nurturing a new ego: “A sannyasin must not be angry.” Why not? If it happens, fine; if it doesn’t, fine. Whatever existence has happen is fine. If you live such absolute acceptance, your categories of ordinary/extraordinary, special/common—all will drop. Then, suddenly one day, you will find: anger, too, has vanished. Because anger lives precisely because of these categories: “I am special!”

When someone pushes you, what do you say? “Don’t you know who I am! Mind your place!” What does “Don’t you know who I am?” mean? Ego—that breeds anger. Then you create a new ego: “I am a sannyasin; I will not be angry no matter what happens.” This too is a new ego. Again you become special. Anger will still be there; it will only go underground.

Vulgarities vanish from the life of one in whom values have disappeared. Hence Ashtavakra keeps saying: Nothing is good, nothing is bad; no duty, no non-duty; no morality, no immorality. These words are supremely revolutionary. I’m not sure you grasp them, because within you sits the cobweb of concepts hoarded for centuries. A part of you frets: “How can this be?” You fear: “What will happen to my categories?”

Even to become a sannyasin you want to be special. I am making you a sannyasin so that you become utterly ordinary, simple. The old sannyasin was special—he would not live at home, he would live in the forest; he would not mingle, not engage in common talk; he would remain distant, separate, distinct—making every effort to set himself apart from the ordinary. I have given you sannyas without trying to separate you from life. You are a husband, a wife, a son, a father; you have a home and a door; you will run a shop, do a job—I have given you sannyas as you are. I do not want to see you otherwise.

If you understand me, I have given you liberation. Now you carry no burden—the burden of having to be something.

“Why doesn’t the fragrance of liberation instantly make him an honest great man?”

The ambition to be a “great man” is insanity. What does “great man” mean? Others trailing behind while you march with a flag: “May our flag fly high!” A great man! Is being a man not enough? Must you be “great” in some way?

Say “natural man,” not “great man.” And the truly natural man is the only great man. What you call “great man” is just a new journey of the ego. Beware. The ego’s pathways are subtle, very fine. It finds a way everywhere.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife went to her parents’ home. She kept writing to Nasruddin to come to Banaras for a few days. But Mulla wouldn’t leave Poona. At last, she sent a photo along with a letter. In it, a couple sits on a park bench—husband and wife holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes; on the bench nearby sits his wife alone—anxious, sad, as if she has lost everything. In the letter she wrote, “See, how lonely I am without you.”

Mulla looked at the photo, fumed, and wired back: “All that is fine—now tell me, who took the picture?”

If doubt is there, the mind will find a route. If ego is there, it will find a route. You press it here; it pops out there. You avoid it here; it finds another pathway.

A seeker must remember to recognize all the routes of the ego.

I am not asking you to drop the ego—because dropping the ego also becomes ego. I am saying only this: please recognize the ego’s pathways—where it comes from, how it comes, what subtle processes it uses, what costumes it wears. You don’t even recognize it. Sometimes it comes dressed as humility. Now it is coming as “great man.” It whispers: “Are you an ordinary human? You are a great man. You have to do something in the world. You must leave a name.” Before, it was to earn wealth, to win elections—now, somehow freed from that, it is to become a “great man.” But whatever is, you are not content; you must become something.

I say to you: as you are, you are beautiful. As you are, come to rest.

Understand me—taste it a little. Be content with being as you are. If anger comes, say, “Yes, I am an angry man—anger comes.” If you get into a quarrel, say, “I am quarrelsome—this happens.” Thus I am! Open your heart—simple, as you are. Then a natural human will be born within you—the Bauls call him adhar-manush, the natural man. It is this naturalness we seek. O seeker, natural samadhi is best!

You want to do something unnatural—to do what no one has ever done so you stand above, so you appear separate and superior.

There is not much difference between your so-called saints and your politicians, because politics, at its core, means: push others down so you rise up; you up, they down. Wherever that tendency exists, there is politics. And where the feeling arises that we are all parts of the One, and the One dwells in us all—who is up, who is down? All is His play; the bad is He, the good is He; the small is He, the great is He; Rama is He, Ravana is He—on the day this feeling arises, you have become religious.

It only indicates that you have understood nothing of what I am telling you. It indicates nothing else. It only shows that I go on playing the flute here, and there you go on ruminating. You do not understand what I am saying. You go on singing your own tune. My purpose and yours seem different. You have come to become something special, and my whole effort is to bring you down to earth—ordinary, natural. Your ambition is to decorate the ego; my wish is that your ego drop—naked, sky‑clad—as it is.

If you are to be with me, be with understanding; otherwise you will miss me too. Instead of resolution coming into your life, entanglements will arise—because a conflict will be created. If you want to become a great man, find some other mahatma who will teach you what is auspicious and what is inauspicious, what to do and what not to do; who will impose discipline; who, from rising in the brahma‑muhurta to going to sleep at night, will make your life that of a prisoner and give you the whole regimen. Go find such a mahatma.

I am an ordinary man, and I can only make you ordinary. There is nothing special in my life, nor any insistence on specialness. I am just like you. If there is any difference, it is only this: I have no desire to be otherwise. I am utterly fulfilled. I am content. I am brimming with blessedness; as it is, it is beautiful, it is true. Whatever is happening, there is not even an inch of desire or plan to make it different. I have no sense of doership. I simply see. Whatever scene the Divine presents, that is what I see. If you too are willing to be a witness, and the madness of the doer has dropped from you, only then will some fragrance, some light of experience, begin to spread in your life. Otherwise you will not be able to understand me. I am the supreme lazy one; I want to take you also to where doership remains no more—where whatever the Lord makes you do, you do; what he makes you say, you say; what he does not make you do, you do not do; where you do not come in between at all; where you move entirely out of the way.

I have moved completely out of the way; whatever happens, happens. May the same happen within you too. I have called forth such a foundational human being, such a simple, natural human being.

Sannyas means the process of becoming natural. And the basic attitude of becoming natural is this: you are free; therefore there is nothing else to become. Sink into your naturalness—and you are free.

Therefore I declare your liberation. If you have the courage, accept it. Courage is needed.

Whatever I say, once spoken, my connection with it is gone. What remains of “me” in it then? The moment I have said something to you, it has become yours. The next moment what I say may appear contrary to the first; but who am I now to change the first? The moment in which the first arose is no more. With that moment gone, there is no way to take it back. So I never look back. In that moment, what I said was true—true for that moment.

And I have no reverence for consistency; my reverence is for truth. I have no insistence that whatever I say should fit neatly together. If I demand consistency among my statements, I would become untrue—because truth itself is deeply paradoxical. Sometimes it is morning, sometimes night. Sometimes there is sun, sometimes shade. Sometimes life, sometimes death. Truth flows through seasons. Truth is profoundly contradictory. It is in Rama and in Ravana too; in the auspicious and the inauspicious. Truth has many forms. Truth is anekant—many-sided.

So what I said in one moment was one facet of truth; what I said in another was a second facet; in a third moment, a third facet. They are all facets of truth, but truth is vast. In words only small pieces can be held; the whole never fits. Otherwise I would say it once and be done. The whole cannot be captured. Words are narrow; truth is like the sky, and words are little courtyards.

So whatever fits into the courtyard in that moment, I say that much. Tomorrow’s courtyard will hold something else; the day after, something else again.

Therefore I don’t look back. And what would looking back mean? I worry neither about the future nor about the past. I let what is happening in this moment happen. I don’t fuss, because I am not a doer. If I were to say, “What I said ten years ago, I now take back,” that would mean I had done it. And now I feel it’s causing trouble, the present words contradict the past, so I should tidy it up and retract. But what was said ten years ago was said in some context, some situation, in the presence of certain people, in response to some challenge; it was the truth of that moment. I have no right to withdraw it. I didn’t “speak” it either—so what right do I have to take it back? I am not its owner. That which spoke through me then is the same that speaks through me now—this much I know. In that moment it wanted to speak thus; in this moment it speaks thus. If anyone must reconcile it, let Existence—God—do the worrying. I have surrendered myself like a flute.

And a flute is not going to say, “Yesterday you played one song and today another? O player, stop! This is inconsistency. Yesterday you struck one raga, today another. No, either keep playing yesterday’s, or if you play today’s, first apologize for yesterday.” The flute will not say that. The one who played yesterday is the one playing today. Yesterday he favored that raga; today another.

Who am I to interfere? So I am untroubled.

Your question is fair too. Anyone else, after making so many statements, would either go mad—because keeping such a burden on one’s head would unhinge the mind—or would be crushed trying to balance them all: how many songs have been sung and how to keep accounts among them? But I relate only to the song being sung in this moment. Beyond that I keep no accounts.

I have no interest in establishing consistency. And you too should not get caught in that anxiety. I understand your discomfort. Don’t start computing: “Let me find consistency among all his statements.” There is a consistency, but you will recognize it only when you yourself become a flute; before that, you will not. The statements are not consistent; the lips upon my flute are one—there lies the consistency. The statements differ, the songs differ, the meters differ; but you will see this only when you become a hollow reed yourself. Then suddenly you will see: Ah, what seemed opposite is reconciled! What appeared fragmented becomes whole. What looked like scattered pieces with no harmony turns out to be part of a vast order, a discipline. You will see this on the day the divine begins to speak through your lips, the day the divine begins to sing through you—on the day you become a flute.

I am not a philosopher. So I have neither the urge to make statements nor the urge to withdraw them. Whatever happens in the moment, I am at ease with it.

Think of me as a poet. You don’t expect a poet’s two poems to be consistent with each other. Or think of me as a painter. You don’t expect a painter’s two paintings to harmonize into one consistent theme. In fact, your hope is that each new painting will be utterly unique, not matching the earlier ones at all. If a painter goes on repeating the same painting, you will say, “He’s dead.”

It is said that in Picasso’s life a friend bought one of his paintings for a huge sum. He brought it to Picasso and asked, “This is originally yours, no one copied it, there’s no fraud? Before I buy it, I want to be sure.” Picasso looked and said, “Don’t get into this fuss; it’s all imitation—this isn’t original.” Picasso’s lover was nearby and was startled. She said, “Wait! Are you in your senses? You painted this before my eyes—I remember it well, it’s yours.” Picasso said, “I didn’t say I didn’t paint it; I said it’s a copy.” Now they were more confused. She said, “You painted it and yet it’s a copy? What are you saying?” Picasso said, “I mean I have painted such a picture before, and then I painted it again. Whether I painted it again or someone else did, what difference does it make? It is not original. It is a repetition. A repetition done by my own hand, but still not original. I’ve painted such a picture before—this is a repeat. Repetition is not original.”

We expect Picasso to make each painting so unique that it differs from his earlier ones. We expect a poet not to sing the same song over and over.

In my village there is a “poet.” He has written only one poem—who knows, perhaps he stole it. Because one who writes only one is suspect: had he been a poet, he would at least have written a second. He knows just one poem: “O Youth!”—a poem on youth. The whole village is weary of him. It is impossible for a poetry gathering to happen without his turning up—and then that “O Youth” must be heard.

I understood the village’s plight when I was a boy. So whenever there was any poetry meet, I would go to his house to invite him. I did it over and over—anywhere, for anything—I invited him. Sometimes even where there was no poetry meet at all—some other meeting—I would invite him: “Please come, people are eager to hear your poem.” One day he said to me, “You seem to be my great admirer; you are always the one who comes!” And I would even get him to recite at gatherings where no one had come to hear poetry. I would invite him first, then stand near the stage—small village—and as soon as he came I’d say, “Come, Advocate-saheb, please come!” and seat him on the dais. No one in the village could object—he was a lawyer, so no one wanted a quarrel. Then I’d go into the crowd and start sending notes: “A poem should be recited; Advocate-saheb’s poem should be recited.” The whole village knew that no one but me wanted to hear that poem. If the chair ignored my notes, I would stand up and announce, “The public wants to hear Advocate-saheb’s poem.” The public couldn’t deny it—because, well, he was a lawyer, and who wanted trouble? And slips were pouring in. The chair was forced to say, “Advocate-saheb, please recite your poem.” He would begin, “O Youth...”

After this happened many times, he asked me, “What’s going on? Why is it always you? Are you the organizer of all these events?” I said, “No, the organizers are different each time, but they know I’m your devotee, so they send me.” Eventually even he began to suspect me—because it’s understandable if no one wants to hear your poem, and everyone sits glumly or looks away as soon as you come in. It got to the point that event chairs started calling me in advance, “Brother, please don’t bring Advocate-saheb. We’ll treat you to sweets if you don’t bring him.”

Now, one poem—he must have stolen it.

We expect a poet to say new things; a painter to paint new paintings; a sculptor to carve new forms. But we expect a philosopher to keep repeating what he has already said.

No, I am not a philosopher, not a pundit. Take my statements as you would poems. What I want to bind you to is one—and I try to bind you to it from many directions. What I want to express is one—but I have painted it in many, many colors. You will understand this only when you become as empty as I am.

So let me tell you: I have not given a single statement that I consider contradictory. I have given different statements, said different things, strung the song in different ways; but what I have said is one. I have embodied it through many different mediums.

One song can be written on paper as a poem; the same song can be played on a veena as music. Between the poem on paper and the vibrating strings there is no visible “consistency.” The same poem can also be painted as an image—have you seen paintings of ragas? Each raga can be painted, for every raga has a color. The very word raga means color.

So if I speak a poem of peace, that peace can be played as a melody on the veena so that listening brings serenity. A serene painting can be made in blues and greens so that seeing it quiets the mind. A serene sculpture can be made—a Buddha—that if you look at it attentively, your agitation dissolves. These are different mediums. But what I want to say is one.

Therefore I have never seen a contradiction for which I should repent or retract. Yes, I understand your difficulty. Often you feel I say this one day, that the next. Because you are not ready to take truth in its vastness; you want it in a very narrow form. When I say, “Through devotion one meets God,” the devotee says, “Right.” And when I speak on knowledge, I say, “How can God be found through devotion?” The devotee is shaken: “Now it’s gone wrong! Yesterday I had agreed and was ready to take sannyas from this man—he was speaking my language; and today he says, ‘How will God be found through devotion?’” For as long as the devotee remains, how will God be found? As long as the “I” is there, the “Thou” remains; and as long as “Thou” is there, the “I” remains. It is through witnessing, not through devotion. Devotion is full of attachment.

So you are startled. But the one who leans toward witnessing perks up: “Now it’s right; till now he’s been off-track, today he’s hit the point.”

But I am saying one and the same thing. These are different mediums, different paths, all leading to the same peak.

And I have chosen to speak about all the paths. This is happening for the first time. Buddha spoke of one path, Mahavira of one, Narada of one, Ashtavakra of one. The unfortunate result was that those who followed Ashtavakra opposed Narada; those who followed Narada opposed Buddha; those who followed Buddha opposed Mahavira. But to me, none of them are opposed; they all point in the same direction. The fingers differ; the moon they point to is one. Look at the moon; don’t clutch at the finger. To make this clear I decided to speak on all. And when I speak on one, I forget all else I’ve said—only then can I speak on it; otherwise I couldn’t. Then I wouldn’t do justice.

If, while speaking on Ashtavakra, I keep a bit of Narada’s tune inside, worrying “Let Narada not be invalidated,” I will whitewash everything. I won’t be able to speak Ashtavakra fully. When I speak on Ashtavakra, let Nanak mind himself, Narada mind himself, Kabir and Meera take care of themselves; I don’t worry. My only concern then is to convey Ashtavakra’s teaching to you in full authenticity. I become totally absorbed in Ashtavakra. Then I don’t speak—Ashtavakra speaks through me. That’s why you see contradictions. But wherever you start from, whichever path you take, on the day you arrive you will know: there is no contradiction.

“For twenty years you have been speaking; many of your statements contradict one another.”

Precisely so—and I enjoy it that way: that each statement is contradicted by another, so that you don’t get fettered by statements. I am leading you toward the statementless, the ineffable. I don’t want my words to sit on your chest like a rock. Before you grasp them, I break them. I want to free you, not bind you. Do not be bound by my statements. In fact, you won’t be able to—because I won’t give you the chance. Many times you prepare yourselves, you sit back saying, “Good, I’ve found home; let me settle—no more wandering, this is final.” Before you can settle, I begin to snatch it away. I give with one hand and take with the other. I want to bring you to a state where no statement remains upon you—only the statementless, the ineffable, the empty. I don’t want my words to become obstacles on the path to truth, because all words become obstacles. The moment you clutch a statement, you become sectarian.

That’s how a Muslim is a Muslim—he has grabbed the Qur’an’s statements. A Buddhist is a Buddhist—he has grabbed Buddha’s. A Jain is a Jain—he has grabbed Mahavira’s. I don’t want to leave statements behind for you to grab. I want to leave you in the statementless, the ineffable. I will say everything and take it all away. Give with one hand, remove with the other. One day you will understand that this empty state—when nothing remains in your hands—is the state of truth. The moment you grasp, you are grasped. The grasper is captured by what he grasps.

The one who clings to statements becomes sectarian. The one who lives in the statementless is religious. Then he understands all statements and is possessed by none, defined by none.

“Your many statements contradict one another. But surprisingly, you have never taken back a single statement.”

There is no need to. If I retract one, it implies I’m siding with another. I said something yesterday; I take it back today to keep it from obstructing today’s statement, so that today’s can capture you completely—therefore I retract yesterday’s. No—I want to reel in the whole net, so I will retract none in particular. But my reeling won’t do it; your understanding will. I will go on contradicting.

Do you know Mahavira’s syadvada? If someone asked Mahavira, “Does God exist?” he would give seven predications. “Is God?” He would say, “Perhaps yes—syad asti.” Before the man could grasp it, Mahavira would add, “Perhaps no—syad nasti.” Before he could seize that, Mahavira would say, “Perhaps both yes and no—asti nasti.” Before he could clutch that, “Perhaps neither.” Thus Mahavira would proceed through six predications; and before any of these could be held, he would say the seventh: “Inexpressible—avaktavya.”

After all the statements, remember, I want to say: inexpressible. What I want to say cannot be said. I try to say it because you cannot yet understand the unsaid. So sometimes I say “God is”—a statement about God. Sometimes I say “God is not”—also a statement about God. In the first, God is approached through “yes”; in the second, through “no.” In the first, through day; in the second, through night. In the first, through presence; in the second, through absence. In the first, with the help of theism; in the second, with the help of atheism.

You may be surprised that even the atheist’s assertion is about God. And in God both “is” and “is not” are joined—otherwise, how would things come into being and pass away? You see a tree: yesterday it was not; the seed sprouted; now it is; tomorrow it will not be. If God’s nature were only “is,” how could the tree ever “not be”? Both must be within the nature of the Whole. The being of the tree is acceptable to the divine; the non-being of the tree is acceptable too. Whether the tree is or is not, nothing obstructs the divine. Therefore in the divine there is yes and no, presence and absence. This is a little difficult.

The theist’s statement is the simplest: “is.” The atheist’s is a little harder, but not very: “is not.” But notice, the word “is” is present in both: “God is,” or “God is not.” The “is-ness” persists. Mahavira then adds a third: both. Saying one alone leaves the matter incomplete—say the whole. He proceeds thus and in the end says the real thing: avaktavya—cannot be said.

These are devices for saying, ways of pointing. But whatever is said remains small; what was to be said is vast, it doesn’t fit, it won’t be contained. So finally the real thing must be stated: only silence can say it.

“You have never withdrawn a single statement.”

All statements are pointing to the one.

“Nor have you felt the need to revise any.”

To revise is the very meaning of ego.

Once, in Gujarat, an old Gandhian, Swami Anand, stayed with me. While chatting he told me, “I am Gandhi’s oldest reporter. When Gandhi returned from Africa, I reported his first speech to the newspapers. In that speech he used some harsh words—abuses—toward the British; I left those out. Next day Gandhi read the report; he inquired who had sent it. He called me, embraced me, and said, ‘That is how a reporter should be! You left out the abuses—good. I regretted saying them later. One should not use such words. Keep doing exactly this—that is true reporting.’ He patted my back.”

I said, “Did you ever do the opposite—if Gandhi didn’t abuse, add one or two to the report? Then see what happens!” He said, “What do you mean?” I said, “The first report was false anyway; what was said was omitted—yet Gandhi patted you. Which means he regretted what he had said—so he must have been unconscious when he said it. If he said it in awareness, what is there to regret? He must have been unconscious; later, when ‘awareness’ returned and he looked back, he thought: This will hurt my image; what of my ‘mahatma-hood’! People will say, he abused! He must have feared the report appearing in the papers and becoming a historical record. So he called you and patted you. You protected his ego; he protected yours. You were happy. This is falsehood—and Gandhi claimed insistence on truth, ‘satyagraha.’ Truth, he said, is supreme. But this is not truth. And if this is truth, then one day if Gandhi does not abuse, you add a few in the report—why would that be untrue? Either removing or adding—both would be equal.

“If I had been there, I would have told you: you don’t know reporting; leave this line of work—you lied. Though your lie supported Gandhi’s ego, so he agreed. Had it been against his ego, what then? Gandhi would have issued a public statement: the report is false. It was false anyway, yet he issued no such statement that he had abused—what happened to that truth? Instead he patted your back. This is a transaction—you saved him; he saved you. If he now calls you the greatest reporter, what’s surprising? You protected his saintly image. And you deceived future generations—now many will confidently claim Gandhi never abused, which will be untrue. And it will be written in Gandhi’s stories: he never abused. But he did. At least write it down now.”

He was so offended—he had thought I too would pat his back. I said, “You acted dishonestly.” He never met me again.

What I have said, I have said. What is there to change? I speak in awareness. Who will “improve” it? I cannot speak with more awareness than I did—so there is no question of revision. What’s done is done. Whether it brings me fame or infamy, whether you call me saint or sinner—these are secondary. What was said, was said. Whether you understand it is up to you. That is why I have never felt the need to modify anything. Revision has no meaning.

“Are you doing this knowingly, and is there some secret behind it?”

No, not knowingly; it is happening; I see it happening. And it feels natural—nothing contrived. Why whitewash afterwards? Each moment is as it is. My statement remains a testimony to that moment. None of my statements will bear false witness about me.

Yes, I understand your difficulty—you find it hard to understand. But that is your problem, not mine. It is your tangle—find a way through it. I cannot turn truth into untruth or untruth into truth to spare you your confusion.

“And is there not the danger that in time people will doubt that all the statements are from one master?”

What harm if they do? If people conclude that such variety could come from many, not from one—what’s the loss? Let them think as they will. Why should we keep accounts today for what people may think tomorrow? Let the future remain unknown.

I know my statements will create difficulties. Someone who wants to write a PhD on them will not find it easy. He may bang his head for years and still not comprehend. I have not given you a canal; I have given you a river in flood. You will not be able to contain it within PhD parameters. But whether anyone earns a PhD or not—why should that bother me?

There was an exhibition of modern art. You know modern art—one understands nothing. They say once someone hung a Picasso upside down in a show; it hung that way and people praised it, critics wrote essays in its honor. When Picasso arrived he said, “Who is this boor who hung my painting upside down!” But with modern art, who can tell up from down?

Once a man came to Picasso wanting to buy two paintings, but only one was ready. He was a millionaire. He said, “Whatever the price, but I want two right now.” Picasso went inside and cut the painting into two with scissors—now there were two. Picasso’s work is such that even if you cut it into four, you wouldn’t know where it was cut.

They say a man once commissioned a portrait. Picasso made it and asked several thousand dollars. The man said, “All is fine, but my nose isn’t right.” Picasso said, “Alright, though it will be quite a hassle, we’ll fix it.” After the man left, Picasso sat dejected. His lover asked, “Why so sad?” He said, “I can’t even tell where I painted the nose! How shall I fix it?”

Such is modern art. At that exhibition, the judge appointed to award the prizes was an astrologer. People asked, “What does an astrologer know of art? We’ve seen him exorcise spirits, read palms and horoscopes; but art? We never knew.” The organizers said, “He knows nothing of art—but this art is such that knowing is beside the point. In truth, this art is so confounding that only an astrologer could judge which is right and which is wrong!”

When what I have said is gathered together, it will indeed be difficult. To figure out what I said, why I said it, and then why I contradicted it—fine, good for the future; it will provide a bit of intellectual exercise.

These statements I am not leaving for scholars; I am leaving them for meditators. A meditator will understand; a scholar will not.

So yes, there is a secret: only a meditator can understand these—never a pundit. The pundit will say, “This man was either mad, or there were many different speakers. These cannot be the statements of one man—several people’s words have gotten mixed up.” He will say, “No single person could have said so many things.”

The secret is this: these statements are not left for pundits; they are left for meditators. One who reads them steeped in meditation and love will understand. Not that he will “understand the statements”; he will understand the one from whom they arose; he will understand the state of consciousness in which they were given; he will understand the witnessing out of which they descended.

In each of my words there will be a slight glimpse of my emptiness. And in the empty space around every word, my presence will remain.

This is the secret—not of logic and thought, but of meditation and emptiness.

First thing: As long as you want to eliminate fear, fear will not go. In your very effort to remove it, fear is hiding. You are not only afraid—you are afraid of fear itself; that is why you want to get rid of it. You will not be able to destroy it. When you dissolve, fear disappears. You cannot abolish fear; fear is the shadow of your ego.

Understand what fear is.

You know death will happen—you cannot deny it. Every day someone dies. In each death there is news of your own death. Whenever a bier passes by, it is your own bier. Whenever a pyre burns, it is your own pyre. How will you forget? You know you too will die. If there is birth, there will be death. This body is already on its deathbed, already as if laid upon the pyre. You are dying a little every day. How will you not be afraid? The fear will gnaw at you: death is drawing near—who knows when it will arrive? It can come any time, any moment.

In this life only one thing is certain—death; nothing else is certain. How will you not be shaken by that certainty? You took the body to be “I,” and the body is going to die; when there is death, there will be fear. You took the mind to be “I”—and the mind is even more unstable than the body; it does not remain the same for even a moment; it keeps changing, a stream of water—now this, now that. In the morning you were filled with love, by noon filled with hate. Just now reverence was swelling, just now irreverence arose. A moment ago you were displaying great compassion, and a moment later you were in anger. A moment ago you were ready to die for someone, now you are ready to kill that very person.

This mind is not trustworthy; it is trembling, wavering. It is a wave upon water. Try to draw anything upon it—nothing holds; it is erased at once. With such a fleeting mind you have taken yourself to be one! With a body marching into the jaws of death you have taken yourself to be one. How will you not be afraid? And you ask: how to be free of fear?

Fear is natural. Fear is the shadow of your mistaken identifications. The day you know “I am not the body, I am not the mind,” that very day you will know fear has gone. But that day you will also know that the “I” itself is not—neither body am I, nor mind am I. Then what remains within is such that even if you search, no “I” is found there; no notion of “I” arises at all. The “I” is born only out of identification. Get attached to something—body, mind, wealth, religion—and the “I” appears. Wherever you join yourself, the “I” forms. When all joinings fall away, the “I” does not remain. Then what remains within is a nature of emptiness. In that empty nature, not even a trace of fear is born.

So you ask how to be free of fear?
No—do not strive for freedom from fear; understand why fear is. You are already trying methods for escape. One man clings to the feet of God: “Lord, save me; I take refuge in you.” But he is there because of fear. You remember God only when you are afraid.

A boat was about to sink; Mulla Nasruddin and his friend were both trembling. Nasruddin’s friend dropped to his knees and began to pray: “O Allah, O Father above, if you save me today, I will never drink again. If you save me today, I will never smoke again.” He was making great vows. He was just about to say, “If you save me today, I will become a monk, a fakir,” when Mulla said, “Wait—wait! Don’t be in such a hurry; the shore is visible.” The man stood up at once—and forgot all that pious babble. When the shore is in sight, who bothers!

Once Mulla was climbing a date palm, a tall one. His foot slipped and he cried, “Lord, if you just let me reach the fruit today, I will offer one whole rupee in cash. Believe me. Though in the past I have given you no reason to trust me, this time I will.” He climbed. As he came near the dates, he thought, “Even you will agree a whole rupee is too much for a few dates.” When his hand was already on the fruit he said, “We do the climbing, and you expect us to pay you as well!” Just then his foot slipped and—thud—he fell to the ground. The dates were gone. Dusting off his clothes, he looked up and said, “What’s this! Can’t you take a little joke? If you hadn’t dropped me, I would have offered you a bright rupee!”

Man remembers God only in fear; the moment he is a little out of fear, God and all that is forgotten. Your God is a form projected by your fear.

And people believe the soul is immortal. That too is a notion born of fear. I am not saying the soul is not immortal. But your believing that the soul is immortal is born of fear. Afraid of death, you say, “The soul is immortal.” You tremble. There is no direct taste of the soul—let alone of immortality. Yet you assert, “The soul is immortal!” Do not try to hide yourself behind such doctrines.

Freedom from fear is possible—by knowing fear. Witness fear. Wherever you sense fear, bring awareness to it. Try to understand—why is it there? Where is it? In which corner is it hiding? In what layer of the unconscious does it sit? From where does this smoke arise? Why does it arise?
The friend who has asked, I feel he has never really encountered fear. Fear has paralyzed him. Break this paralysis. When fear arises, sit quietly and attentively recognize where it is. It seems the body will die; well, the body is bound to die—what is there to fear in that? It is going to happen anyway. What is the use of being afraid of it?
Socrates was dying. A disciple asked, “Are you not afraid?” Socrates opened his eyes and said, “Afraid? There are only two possibilities: either, as the atheists say, I will die—absolutely die—and nothing will remain; if nothing remains, then who will be afraid, of what? The matter is finished. Socrates is no more—finished. And even if he had remained, what was there to be done by remaining? He lived so many days—what did he accomplish? Before birth we were not, and there was no trouble then; if after death we are again not, what trouble can there be?

I ask you: before birth you were not; if the atheists are right, before birth you were not. What suffering was there in not being? Do you remember any discomfort in non-being? Any pain from before your birth? When you were not, how could there be suffering? When there was no one, who was there to suffer? If after death you are again not, then why this panic? It will be just as it was before birth—understand it that way.

So Socrates said: If the atheists are right, that the soul ends in death and nothing remains, then what fear? As you were not before birth, so again you will not be—end of the story, come and gone. A wave rose and fell. Or it may be that the theists are right. If the theists are right and the soul remains, then again what fear? Only the body has gone; we remain. We were never the body in the first place.

Socrates said: There are only two possibilities—either the theists are right, or the atheists are right. And Socrates is a man of great courage. He does not even say, ‘I believe this one is right.’ He says, ‘I don’t know.’ But why fear? Only one of the two can be true. In either case, fear is meaningless.

So if the fear is about the body’s going—what is there to fear? The body will go.

A fakir had two sons. They died in an accident. When the fakir came home from the mosque after offering namaz, his wife said, “First eat your meal; then I will tell you something.” He ate. But he kept asking, “Where are the boys?” because he was very attached to them. They were twins. He kept saying, “They always reach the mosque—today they didn’t arrive. What is the matter?” The wife said, “I will tell you later; first please eat.” He finished eating, washed his hands and feet, and sat down. Then she said, “Come to the other room, but first I must ask something. Twenty years ago a man left some diamonds and jewels with me as a trust. Today he has come to ask for them back. Should I return them?” The fakir said, “Is this even a question? What belongs to him—return it. There was no need to wait to ask me. Why did you not return them? Has some dishonesty arisen in your mind?”

She said, “Then all is well. Come inside.” She lifted the sheet; both boys were lying dead. The fakir was stunned into silence. But then he understood. Twenty years ago both were born; the one who had given has taken back today. He started laughing. He said to his wife, “You did well. You asked me rightly. And look at the wonder—twenty years ago, when these two had not been born, everything was fine; now that they have gone, what reason is there for anything to be wrong? Back then we were fine when they were not. As we were then, so we will be now. It was a dream—seen, and broken.”

So if fear arises on account of the body—this body will go. There is no way to save it. If fear arises on account of the mind—the mind is not you. Wake up a little! Meditate! Let awareness fill you. As you begin to awaken and the lamp of consciousness is lit, you will start becoming separate from body and mind; in the same measure, fear will dissolve.

But do not fight fear. If you fight it, you will keep trembling within. The situation will remain inverted.

Freed from fear, the incomparable flowers of life blossom. Crushed under fear, all the buds of life remain unopened; the petals never unfold. Fear petrifies. I understand your trouble. But if you are eager to escape fear, you will never escape. I tell you: know fear, look at it—it is; it is a part of life. Fix your gaze upon it, encounter it directly. As your inner eye opens and you begin to see fear rightly—recognizing from where it arises—so far will fear begin to dissolve, to recede. And a moment of fearlessness comes when no fear remains. Death will remain; the body will die, the mind will change—everything will continue to happen. But in your innermost core there is something eternal, ancient, hidden, which has no death. Taste a little of that. In witnessing you will taste it. On that taste alone does fear dissolve; there is no other remedy.

Hari Om Tatsat!