Maha Geeta #64

A few things about solitude should be understood. Solitude has three forms. First: what we call loneliness. Second: aloneness. And third: kaivalya.

Loneliness is negative. Loneliness is not true aloneness; the memory of the other keeps tormenting you—if only the other were here; the other’s absence hurts, a thorn pricks; the mind is entangled in the other. To outward eyes you are alone, but not within; inside, a crowd is present. Someone may find you sitting by yourself, yet you know you are not alone: someone comes to mind; your heart is set on someone; you are sending out a call to someone; weaving dreams of someone; a cry is going on within—if only someone were here, I would not be alone! You are not reconciled to loneliness. Far from joy, there is not even peace in it. You are restless, agitated. Soon you will find some entanglement: you will go to a friend’s house, to the club, to the market; you will read the newspaper, turn on the radio—do something, create some involvement. This loneliness is drab. It is physical—not mental; spiritual, certainly not.

Aloneness is the second kind of being alone. Aloneness means a taste has begun to arise; there is enjoyment in being by oneself; loneliness now is like a song; the other no longer comes to mind; there is delight in one’s own being; the other is forgotten; there is no urge to be busy; there is great peace.

The first is negative; the second is constructive. In the first, the absence of the other is painful; in the second, there is relish in one’s own presence. In the first, you are not connected with yourself; in the second, you are connected with yourself. In the first, the mind wanders in a thousand places; in the second, the mind-bird has come home.

This second aloneness brings deep peace—it is a meditative state.

Then there is the third aloneness: kaivalya. In the first, you have no sense of yourself—only the remembrance of the other. In the second, there is remembrance of oneself—the other is forgotten. In kaivalya, the other is forgotten and the self is forgotten too; no one remains—neither the other nor the self; neither par nor sva. For as long as the sense of self remains, somewhere in a corner the other will be hiding. The line called “self” cannot be drawn without the other’s presence. “I” and “Thou” exist together. In the first, “Thou” is prominent, “I” is hidden. In the second, “I” is prominent, “Thou” is hidden. These are two sides of the same coin. In the first, “Thou” is above, “I” below; in the second, “I” above, “Thou” below. In the third, the whole coin is lost—neither “I” remains nor “Thou”; only kaivalya remains, pure consciousness remains. This is the ultimate solitude—the state of samadhi! The crowd has gone—and you too have gone with the crowd! You were also a part of the crowd, a limb of the crowd.

In the first state there is unrest; in the second, peace; in the third, bliss. The first is negative, the second constructive, the third celebrative. Not merely constructive. Merely constructive is not enough. Now constructiveness is dancing, singing. Now it is richly colorful.

Understand the difference like this. One man is ill—that is the negative condition. Another man is not ill. He goes to the doctor; the doctor examines and says, “There is no disease; you are healthy.” But within that man there is no celebration of health. He says, “If you say so, I accept it—but I don’t feel any joy; the energy of health is not dancing. If there is no disease, by your definition I am healthy; but there is no movement of health in me, I am not vibrant.”

So first there is disease; second, there is the doctor’s health—the health conferred by diagnosis. All the tests are done; nothing is found; you are sent home: no treatment needed. But you are not returning home dancing. There is no exuberance, no celebration within you.

The third is another kind of health, when you do not even go to ask the doctor—when your health itself is showering day and night. Whom is there to ask! The disease is gone, and the doctor’s health is gone; now you are healthy! So healthy that even the thought of health no longer arises. Only a sick man thinks of health. Now you are so healthy that you have become bodiless.

These are the three states of being alone.

This is auspicious. It is the first beginning of the journey. The one who feels at home in the crowd is badly lost—that is the mad one. If your heart clings to the crowd, it means you cannot rest in yourself; the doors of the inner temple are closed. It is good that you don’t feel at ease in crowds. This is right. One correct step has been taken.

That too is natural. For lifetimes you have lived in the crowd; the crowd has become a habit. Now the understanding has arisen that the crowd is futile, but the habit persists. Mere understanding does not erase conditioning. The habit has gone deep—entered every pore, penetrated every breath. It is the habit of the crowd.

You have seen there is nothing of substance in the crowd—seen it enough—and now you wish to sit alone; but habit asserts its force. When you sit alone the heart panics in loneliness. This “heart” has been obtained from the crowd; it is a part of the crowd. What you call your “heart,” what you call your “mind,” is not yours. Do not remain in the illusion that you are the master of the mind. The master of the mind is the crowd; the crowd gave it to you. Hence, only by dropping the mind can one step outside the crowd. That the heart does not settle—this is easy enough to understand. How would it settle? The heart belongs to the crowd. It has been manufactured by the crowd’s conditioning. This very “heart” too will have to be dropped; only then will solitude become juicy, flavorful.

Therefore meditation means freedom from the mind. Freedom from the crowd is an auspicious beginning; freedom from the mind must also be sought. For the mind is the crowd’s portion seated within you.

Just examine your mind a little. Whatever is in it has been given by the crowd. The crowd said you are a Hindu, so you are a Hindu. The crowd said you are beautiful, so you are beautiful. The crowd said you are very intelligent, so you are intelligent. These are the crowd’s valuations. You gathered them, and that collection has become your “heart-self.” That too must be dropped. You are beyond this heart-self. Your real being is beyond the mind. Your real being comes from the Divine, not from the crowd. Over what has come from the Divine, the crowd has erected a wall of paint and plaster, drawn a curtain. You are holding onto that curtain.

So, you have grown weary of the crowd—good. Now understand also that whatever the crowd has given must be relinquished; otherwise the mind will not find ease in aloneness. The mind will say, “Let’s go where my very life-breath is—where my original arising is, my source is, my roots are—let’s go there.” The mind will lead you back into the crowd. You will have to move into no-mind. That is why Kabir speaks of the amani state—no-mind. One who truly wishes to be free of the crowd will not succeed without being free of the mind.

That is why I tell you: going to the forest will not do. If you have a little understanding, you can be alone while standing in the crowd. Let the mind fall—that’s all!

Imagine you are standing in a crowd of Hindus, but you have dropped the notion “I am a Hindu.” Around you the crowd of Hindus, or Muslims, or Christians, swells like a sea; but you stand there without the feeling “I am Hindu, I am Muslim, I am Christian.” Are you part of this crowd? Outwardly you stand in it, visible; yet by a very subtle, invisible path, you have become free. The crowd says you are beautiful, and you understand: How can anyone else tell me who I am—beautiful or ugly, healthy or unhealthy, honest or dishonest, moral or immoral—how can it be known from another? How will I know myself on the basis of others? These others do not even know themselves, and they are giving me knowledge! Self-knowledge must be obtained directly, not through any intermediary. These borrowed notions will not become self-knowledge. Thus you awaken and, slowly, you drop the secondhand talk. Now you stand in the crowd, where people consider you intelligent or highly moral; but within you there remains no such belief. You know you must not bring the crowd in between. Now, standing within the crowd, you are outside the crowd.

Try this sometime. Standing right in the marketplace, keep the inner sense that you are outside. For a moment a glimpse will come, a window will open. Like a wave, a new current will race through your life. That very current will carry you into solitude.

All is going well. The heart panics—drop the heart too. If you cling to it, it will drag you back to the crowd. The heart is the crowd’s slave, not yours. You have no real ownership over it. This is the crowd’s very subtle device: it has conditioned your mind. In truth, the sum of the impressions the crowd has planted within you—that sum is what is called the mind. Let that go as well. Take courage. You have taken the first step; now take the second. The second step will be: let the heart panic, and you know, “I am not this heart, I am not this mind—I am beyond.” Gradually, just as you became weary of the crowd, you will become weary of your own mind. Then a second aloneness will be born. Then you will find great peace. There will be an extraordinary rain of peace. The life-breath that has been thirsty for lifetimes will be satisfied.

But do not stop even here, for many stop at peace. They think they have come home. Peace is a halt, not the destination. Peace is a bridge, not the end. One has to go from unrest—not arrive at peace and stay there. One has to go from unrest, pass through peace, and arrive at bliss. Not until there is bliss…

Peace is rather a dead thing—precious compared to unrest. If the choice is between unrest and peace, choose peace. But is peace something to be chosen as an end? If the choice is between bliss and peace, choose bliss. One more journey remains. You have already dropped others; now drop yourself as well. You have forgotten others; now forget yourself too. In this self-forgetfulness, in the relinquishing of the ego, the supreme event happens. Then, for the first time, you will hear the flute that is not human, but the Divine’s. Then, for the first time, you will become an instrument—the vehicle of the supreme energy! Every hair will thrill, surge with ecstasy. Then is the state of kaivalya—utter aloneness. You have set out—do not stop, do not turn back!

This question is natural; it will arise—it will stand before everyone one day or another. Until now you have lived by choosing. Whatever you chose gave you a direction; all other directions were dropped. What you chose also gave you a definition of yourself. You came to know who you are. If you seek truth, you are a truth-seeker. If you seek meditation, you are a meditator. If you have set out upon the path of religion, you are religious. If you do virtue, you are virtuous. A direction gives you a definition. The moment you choose, you feel you are somebody. Things seem clear. And because of your choosing, your ego becomes dense. This brings danger.

When Ashtavakra says: Drop choosing—drop all choosing; drop all doership; drop the sense of the doer—you will be afraid: “Won’t this produce a scattering?” Scattering will happen—certainly at the level of the ego. Because at the level of the ego, scattering is exactly what is needed.

What you presently call “soul” is not your soul; it is the sum of your acts and choices—the ego. The ego will scatter. If you allow yourself to be free in all directions—spontaneous—that indeed is Ashtavakra’s teaching: be spontaneous! Don’t choose. Don’t think of the future. Don’t decide what must be. Live moment to moment. Let life take you where it will. Become like a dry leaf in a storm. In this storm wind that life is, become a dry leaf. Of course a dry leaf will be scattered. A dry leaf’s ego cannot survive. The leaf was going east and the wind began to blow west—what will happen to the leaf’s ego then? The leaf will squirm: “This is wrong! What should not happen is happening! I wanted something else. This is failure; this is a moment of despair. So I have lost.” The ego will break. And dry leaves are not cunning enough to keep finding new strategies to save their ego. Man is very cunning.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was walking down the road when a man who looked like a great wrestler came up and gave him a resounding thump on the back. Nasruddin fell flat on the ground. He got up, very angry—but the anger vanished in a second when he saw the wrestler standing there; a quarrel would be troublesome. Still, man is clever. He said, “Sir! Did you do that as a joke or seriously?” The wrestler said, “Not as a joke—seriously.” Nasruddin replied, “Then it’s all right, because I don’t like that kind of joke. If you did it seriously, there’s no problem,” and he walked on. Taking on trouble is not wise. Such a pretext is enough to save the ego.

Man is very cunning. The irony is, the ego has to endure moments of scattering every day. Watch carefully! You want one thing; something else happens. Even then you somehow explain it away. You say, “The other was dishonest—that’s why he won; I was honest—that’s why I lost.” You never accept the ego’s defeat. You say, “The whole world is against me—that’s why. I am alone—that’s why. Or I did not make a full effort; I was taking it casually.” You find some route or other and save the ego.

If you read life closely—really learn its lesson—life is breaking you every day. Because life has nothing to do with your choices. Your choices are personal; the Whole has no business with them. If your choices sometimes work out, take it as coincidence. It is simply that you chose something that existence was already moving toward, that’s all. By sheer luck! A cat passed and the hanging basket broke. Understand: no basket breaks for the sake of a cat. It was purely coincidental that you chose what was anyway going to happen. But when your chosen thing happens, you puff up with pride: “See—I made it happen!” And when your wish collapses—and it collapses ninety-nine times out of a hundred!—for coincidence can be the exception once in a while—those ninety-nine times you spin some web of reasoning and console yourself. You throw the blame somewhere and absolve yourself.

If one really sees life rightly, the ego cannot even be constructed—so the question of its scattering does not arise. And if you follow Ashtavakra and experiment with choicelessness, then scattering will certainly happen. But remember this: what scatters is not you. What you are as God made you can never scatter. God made you egoless; the ego is your own fabrication. That is what will break. What you manufactured is what will break. What you did not manufacture will never break. Yes, the ego will scatter. And only when it scatters will you, for the first time, come to know the soul. That is the real point.

So you ask—rightly—“Then in a state free of distraction, will there not be a danger that life will fall apart?”

Ashtavakra says: the supreme state of knowing is free of distraction. “Free of distraction” means there is no distraction there. Which also means you are no longer choosing. Otherwise distraction is inevitable.

Suppose you sit to meditate and a dog comes and starts barking—distraction arises. Because you were trying to concentrate, and this dog appears at the wrong time! You rationalize: who knows what karmas from which past life are at work, what ill-treatment I gave this dog that whenever I sit to meditate, this gentleman remembers to bark. He could bark at some other time—twenty-four hours are available! You sit to meditate and a child starts crying. You are surprised: how does the child always get to know that I have just begun meditation? An innocent baby, lying in a cradle, starts crying. He is not crying for you. But the moment you sit to meditate, you have made a choice: “I will be concentrated.” Because of concentration the distraction arises. You wanted to be one-pointed—and in this world thousands of things are happening! On the road horses and carriages run, cars sound their horns, trucks go by, airplanes fly, your wife is cooking in the kitchen, utensils fall, babies cry, children shout and play, dogs bark, crows caw—on all sides a thousand things are happening. The moment you decide, “I will sit in meditation, I will not let any alternative enter my mind, I will not allow anything to obstruct my mind, I will sit for an hour without interruption”—that is exactly when interruptions begin! How are they coming?

Ashtavakra says: they come from the very decision to remain unimpeded.

That is why Ashtavakra does not advocate concentration—nor do I. I have no bias in favor of concentration. Concentration is only an extension of the ego. And real meditation has nothing to do with concentration. Because concentration produces distraction. It creates more restlessness. Then what is the meaning of meditation? In ordinary books—by people who have written about meditation without knowing it at all—you will find this: they write, “Meditation means concentration.” They know nothing. They don’t even know the ABC. Meditation means concentration? Absolutely not—never—a thousand times no! Meditation means freedom from distraction. How can that be concentration? Concentration implies that distractions have arisen.

Meditation means non-concentration. Meditation means: let whatever is happening, happen. The child will cry—let him cry. The dog will bark—let him bark. Who are we to interfere? Who are we to halt this vast existence? Who am I to say that the dog should not bark now, the crows should not caw now, the children should not cry now, the cars should not run on the road now, the airplanes should not fly in the sky now? Who am I to impose a halt? This is a grand proclamation of the ego—that I will impose a halt. No—I am nobody! Whatever happens, I will accept. The dog will keep barking—I will be at ease. The sound of the barking will be heard, it will resound within me—I will go on listening. But since I have no resistance, no distraction will be created. I have no demand that the dog must not bark—so I will not be hurt.

The very moment you want to concentrate, you have made a wound. You must have noticed: if there is a wound on your foot, the whole day everything bumps into it. A child climbs right onto that foot. You are amazed: all these years, all his life, he never climbed on my foot, and today he climbed! You pass through a doorway and it bumps into you. Things fall. They fell every day, and that child climbed many times—but you never noticed it, because there was no wound. Today there is a wound—so you notice. It is not that seeing your wound the whole world is falling on your foot. No one knows of your wound. When you sit to be concentrated and you make an effort—that very effort creates a wound. Now the smallest things start obstructing you.

You must have noticed: the moment you sit to meditate, an ant starts to crawl—she never crawled there before, perhaps never in your life. Somewhere an itch arises. Somewhere it feels as if an ant is climbing on your head. A leg goes numb. A thousand things start up at once—as if the whole world is against your meditation. It is not against meditation; it is against concentration. It is not right to say the world is against you; in the attempt to concentrate you have declared yourself against the world. In trying to concentrate you have announced: “I am the enemy.” You have said, “Now I do not want ants to walk, nor winds to blow, nor birds to sing, nor people to pass on the road, nor utensils to fall.” You have told the whole world, “I am meditating now—everyone keep still!” You have proclaimed contrariness. Distraction will arise—thousands of distractions. This will only produce anger, restlessness.

The real meaning of meditation is: non-concentration. Sit quietly, relaxed. Let what happens, happen. Accept it.

In this state of acceptance one thing will fall apart—the ego; and one thing will be held together—you. One thing will go—the ego; one thing will come—you will go, God will come; or your false face will go and your real face will arrive.

When you have no choosing, a natural ease enters life. Kabir has said to seekers: O seekers, natural samadhi is best.

What is this place!
Neither sky, nor earth;
Neither night, nor dawn;
Neither sorrow, nor joy—
Where has the breeze
From Your courtyard brought me!

If you sit this way—quiet, non-concentrated—one day you will find:

What is this place!
Neither sky, nor earth;
Neither night, nor dawn;
Neither sorrow, nor joy—
Where has the breeze
From Your courtyard brought me!

You were my guide,
You were my fellow traveler,
You were my light,
You gave me sight;
Without You, life
Is but a candle on a tomb.

Surrender yourself into the hands of the divine. Certainly something will scatter. What scatters is meant to scatter—it should scatter. Let it scatter; that is auspicious. And something will be held together—what should be held together.

Right now the false is propped up; the true is asleep. Let the false go, so the true can awaken. Seeing the non-essential as non-essential is the birth of the essential. Recognizing the untrue as untrue is the first ray of truth.

There cannot be such a thirst. You say there is thirst; there is not. Because thirst itself is the path. If there is thirst, the path is already found. Where is a path separate from thirst? All this talk about paths arises only because of a lack of thirst. When there is no thirst we ask, “Where is the way?” When the thirst is aflame, when every hair of your body is burning, when the fire of longing blazes, when the flames of seeking leap up—no one asks for a path. Thirst creates the path.

Understand it this way: if your house catches fire, you don’t stop to ask, “Where’s the door, where’s the main door, which way should I go, which way not?” You jump out the window. You don’t think, “This isn’t the main door—jumping out the window is against etiquette!” You don’t ask for a floor plan. You don’t seek guidance. You don’t pause to inquire of someone. When the house is on fire, your very life is so impelled to get out that you find a way. Your urgency becomes the way.

Questions about the way are asked by people at leisure; in truth, people ask only when they have no intention of leaving. Then they say, “How do we get out? First let the road be known. Let there be guidance.” And even when guidance is given they ask, “Is it certain this guide is right? There are other guides too, are there not? Who is right? First let that be decided. Is Buddha right, or Mahavira, or Krishna, or Christ, or Muhammad—who is right? Is the Quran right or the Vedas? Which is right? First let it be settled. We will surely set out. We must set out. But until the way is clear, until we are certain, how can we walk?” Meanwhile you sit cozily at home, carrying on with your affairs.

These are tricks of avoidance.

You say, “What is the way to attain God? The thirst is there, but the path is not found.”
No—probe your thirst again. Open it up and look once more—you will find there is no thirst. If thirst were there, why would the way not be found? If thirst were there, you would stake everything. If thirst were there, you would discover the way. Because there is a way; from exactly where you stand, the way opens. But until there is thirst, you do not connect with that way.

So the first thing I would say is: rather than seeking the path, deepen the thirst. Deepen it. Ignite it. Become the fuel so that the flames of thirst leap high. Until the thirst turns mad, until such a moment arrives that you are ready to risk everything, understand that there is no thirst. If I ask you: are you ready to stake it all—if there is thirst…?

When Alexander was returning from India, he went to meet a fakir. The fakir looked at Alexander and began to laugh. Alexander said, “This is an insult. Do you know who I am? Alexander the Great!” The fakir laughed even louder. He said, “I see no greatness in you. I see you as very poor and pitiable.” Alexander said, “Either you are mad, or your death has arrived. I have conquered the whole world.” The fakir said, “Drop that nonsense! I ask you: if you were lost in a desert and dying of thirst, the sun blazing fire all around, no greenery in sight, no oasis to be found—at that moment, for a single glass of water, how much of your empire would you give?”

Alexander thought a while. He said, “I would give half my empire.” The fakir said, “But I wouldn’t sell for half.” Alexander thought again. He said, “If such a situation came, I would give my entire empire.” The fakir laughed. He said, “So the total price of your empire is one glass of water. And yet you strut so proudly. When the time comes, all that pride will drain away into a single glass of water. This empire of yours won’t even quench your thirst in that moment. Shout as much as you like—‘Alexander the Great, Alexander the Great!’—it will do nothing. The desert will not hear.”

When an empire can be traded for a glass of water…! If someone were to say to you that God is ready to meet you, what are you ready to lose? What are you ready to stake? Alexander was at least courageous: for a glass of water he said he would give half his empire. For a single glass of God, what would you give? You likely wouldn’t part with half your shop. You probably wouldn’t give half your house. You might not give half your safe. You would say, “Lord, there is still so much work to do; how can I hand over the safe now? The daughter’s wedding is due; the son is still in university. I’ll give it one day, but not now.” What are you ready to give?

Ask yourself sometime: if the Lord were standing at your door and said, “I am willing to meet,” what would you be willing to give? What would you pull out and hand over? Your hands would tremble; they wouldn’t reach for your pocket.

There is a famous poem by Rabindranath. A beggar set out as he did every day. It was the full-moon day, a holy day, and he had great hope. And as beggars do when they go to beg, he had put a little something in his own bowl before he left—naturally, it helps. If there is something in the bowl, people tend to give; if it is empty, they often don’t. If the bowl has something, people feel a little embarrassed—“Others have given; we should too.” There is also a fear of a bad name. Even in the temple, when the priest passes the plate after the arati, he puts some coins in it himself. If the plate were empty, your courage would collapse; you wouldn’t drop in even a single coin. You would think, “No one else put anything—are we the only fools?” If other “fools” have already put some coins, it feels miserly not to put something, and you toss in a small coin. People even bring counterfeit coins to the temple; they look for the smallest change.

He had set out with a few coins, some chickpeas, some wheat, some rice in his bowl, when he saw the king’s chariot approaching, raising dust. The morning sun was up, and the golden chariot was shining. He was overjoyed. He thought, “Such good fortune never came before, for one can’t even enter the palace; there is no question of begging there. Today the king himself is on the road—I’ll stand in the middle with my bowl. Blessed am I! Something is bound to come today.”

The chariot came and even stopped. It stopped, and the beggar grew nervous. He had never had an audience with the king. The king got down. The beggar trembled completely. And before he could gather his wits and extend his bowl, the king held out his own bowl in front of him. He said, “Forgive me; the astrologers have said that if I beg, the kingdom can be saved—otherwise a great crisis is coming upon it. They said that this morning I should go out in my chariot and beg from the first person I meet. Forgive me. I know you are a beggar and it is very difficult for you to give, but there is no other way—it is a matter of saving the kingdom. Give something, anything; do not refuse.”

The beggar was greatly flustered. He could not refuse either—what if the king were displeased…! He put his hand into his bowl. He could have given a fistful, but he had no habit of giving a fistful. With great reluctance he took out a single grain of rice and dropped it in. He had to give something; the king stood before him. One grain of rice!

The matter ended there. The king closed his bowl, mounted the chariot, and left. The dust kept swirling. Then the beggar came to his senses: “Oh! I forgot to ask—I gave instead of asking! It turned upside down!” He was very upset. That day he did get plenty of alms—because whoever gives, receives as well. Though he had not given much, he had given, and for a beggar that was much. His bag filled well that day. Still, he was sad. One grain went! Even if a hundred thousand come, what difference does it make? That one grain will still be less! And what misfortune—meeting the king, and instead of asking, having to give! He felt great pain, a heavy weight. He returned home. His wife ran to him. The bag had never been so full. She was delighted. She said, “Blessed day! So much has come today.” He said, “Leave it, foolish woman—you don’t know what I have lost today! This is nothing. One grain of mine is gone, and more than that, the real gain did not happen. I met the king and could not ask. Never has there been such an unfortunate moment in my life.”

In deep dejection he turned the bag over—and then beat his chest and wept, for he saw that one grain of rice had turned into gold. He cried, “Why didn’t I give it all? Then everything would have turned to gold.”

By giving, things turn to gold. By asking, even gold turns to dust. By giving, even dust becomes gold. That is why the scriptures sing so much of charity.

If there is thirst, prepare to give; and small offerings won’t do—you will have to give yourself. Because little things death will snatch from you anyway; by giving those you are doing no favor to God. If you are ready to give that which death cannot take from you, God will meet you now, this very moment. He stands at the door, knocking; but you fear some beggar might be there! You send your son: “Go say that Father is away.”

You say there is thirst. I cannot believe it. Because whenever thirst has truly arisen in anyone, God has followed right behind it.

O moist-eyed one, anoint your eyes in such a way
that whoever meets your gaze is turned into an image.

O thirsty-lipped one, awaken such thirst
that without pouring rain this Ghanshyam cannot depart.

Silken swings the earth is hanging,
the breeze keeps sweeping the threshold again and again,
but you, with cheek in palm,
sit remembering someone’s cruelty!

When the river is brimming, you run dry,
when the earth springs to life, you let life pass you by.
O you of sixteen monsoons, prepare the bridal bed so
once he touches the veil, he cannot return home.

O thirsty-lipped one, awaken such thirst
that without raining, this Ghanshyam cannot go away.

The cloud does not come by itself walking from the sea—
listen—
the cloud does not come by itself walking from the sea;
it is the earth’s thirst that calls it here.
There is no glow in the firefly as such;
touched by the night’s darkness,
its consciousness becomes a flame.

All the play here is of single-pointed passion;
the world’s weave is of qualities.
O you of a hundred virtues, tie such a knot of this one passion
that all scattered waters rise, wave upon wave, as ocean.

Ghanshyam has already gathered; clouds are surging and swelling; the monsoon has ever been present—you have not called. In truth, you are not thirsty. Your earth has not been shaken by yearning. Such a call has not arisen in your heart that you would stake everything upon it. That is why you are missing.

You ask about the way? You ask about the path? These are mere arithmetics of the mind.
Someone asked Buddha: You say that the awakened ones only show the way; then what is the real benefit of being in their presence and in satsang? Buddha said: “The benefit is that thirst arises; the benefit is that a single-pointed passion is awakened in their nearness.”
If, on seeing a Buddha, a thirst is stirred within you—an upsurge of longing that says, “This too I can become! I must stake everything!”—then the point has been made. It won’t do to be stingy. Half-and-half won’t do—you will have to risk the whole stake. Cleverness won’t work with the Divine.

I have heard: a letter arrived at the income tax office. I was just reading it in an American newspaper yesterday. The man wrote, “Forgive me—twenty years ago I cheated a little on my income tax, and since then I have not slept well. So I’m sending fifty dollars. Now forgive me and let me sleep. If I still can’t sleep, I’ll send the remaining fifty.”

This half-and-half won’t do. Whom are you deceiving? The income tax office doesn’t even know—twenty years have passed, the matter has come and gone. Only you know; and still you send fifty dollars, and if sleep doesn’t come you’ll send the other fifty! You know.

Look, deceive everyone else if you must, but do not deceive the Divine. Because the deception given to the Divine will not let you sleep, will not let you be awake; it won’t let you stand, it won’t let you sit. To deceive the Divine is to deceive your own future. It is to betray your own innermost core. And all of us do this. Then we ask why we don’t find the way. The way is right before your eyes. The very spot where you are standing is the way. In truth, there are many ways; it is only you who refuse to walk. So many ways! Walk by love, walk by meditation, walk by devotion, walk by knowledge, walk by yoga—how many ways there are! So many methods! But you don’t walk; you sit at the crossroads from which all the ways depart.

The old scriptures say: man is a crossroads. In the Jain scriptures there is a very important doctrine—that man is a crossroads. They say that even a god, if he wants liberation, must first become a man, because man stands at the junction. The gods have already taken one track and reached heaven. Heaven is a terminus—Victoria Terminus. There the train ends. Beyond that there is no way—the tracks themselves finish. If one wants to go further, to moksha, one must return as a man. Man is the junction. An astonishing statement by the Jain scriptures: even the gods, if they want liberation—and someday they must, because just as a man wearies of suffering, so too one wearies of pleasure. Repetition wearies. Just as a man wearies of pain—remember—if one gets only pleasure, one wearies of that as well. In truth, when pain and pleasure alternate, one doesn’t tire so quickly; you change shoulders—sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain—and the taste returns. Pain comes, and again the longing for pleasure arises. Pleasure comes, you take a little taste, then pain returns—thus the journey goes on. But in heaven it is only pleasure. In heaven everyone must get diabetes from so much sweetness—sugar and only sugar, sugar and only sugar! Just think—wouldn’t you get nauseated and start to vomit? Only pleasure, only sugar! One day you have to return.

Man is a crossroads. All the paths go out from you—hell, heaven, liberation, the world. All the paths go out from you. And you sit at the crossroads asking, “Where is the path?” If you don’t want to go, then don’t go—but at least don’t ask such upside-down questions. If you don’t want to go, no one can send you. If you don’t want to go, at least be honest; say, “I don’t want to go, that’s why I don’t go. When I want to, I will.”

But man is dishonest. He is not even ready to admit, “I don’t yet want to move toward God.” Man is very dishonest! His hands reach out toward the world, and he says, “I want to go toward God, but what to do—there is no path!”

So what has Patanjali given? What has Ashtavakra given? What did Buddha and Mahavira give? They gave paths. For centuries, tirthankaras and awakened ones have been giving paths—and you say, “What is the path?” Among so many paths you don’t find one; and if I tell you one more, do you think it will make any difference? This is what you kept asking Buddha, this is what you asked Mahavira, this is what you are asking me, and this is what you will go on asking forever. Till the end of time you will go on asking, “There is no path.”

But the dishonesty is deeper: you do not want to go. First make that clean and clear. First make your thirst very explicit.

In my own experience it is so: the one who wants to go—if the whole world tries to stop him, it cannot. If you want to seek, you will find. And when your thirst becomes strong, burning like a flame, the whole existence supports you. Right now you seek wealth and talk of the Divine; you seek position and talk of the Divine; you seek one thing and talk of another. Through talk you create a smoke around yourself, by which others are deceived and you too are deceived. If others are, I am not concerned; but when you yourself are deceived, that is the trouble. You begin to feel you are very religious—that you are so concerned, you think so much!

I have heard that in Lanka there was a Buddhist monk. He had many devotees—thousands. When he was about to die, on the last day he sent word to all his devotees: “Come, now I am going.” He was ninety years old. About twenty thousand gathered. Standing, he said, “Look, now I am going. We will not meet again. So if anyone wants to go with me into nirvana, stand up.” People began looking at one another. Each looked toward the one he wanted to send to nirvana. They began signaling: “Go on! Go on!” Whoever they wanted to be rid of, they said to him, “What are you waiting for? We still have other entanglements, other work; but what are you doing here? You go!”

No one stood. Only one man raised his hand. He didn’t stand—he just raised his hand. The monk said, “I asked you to stand, not to raise your hand.”

He said, “That’s exactly why I only raised my hand. I just want to ask: what is the path to heaven, to moksha, or to nirvana? Please tell the path. Because I’m not ready to go right this moment. But let me at least ask the way—who knows if I will meet you again? The path will come in handy; when I want to go, I will use it.”

The monk said, “I have been telling the path for fifty years. No one walks it. So I thought, at the time of going, if anyone is ready to go, I will take him along. Even now no one is ready.”

You say: “We want to meet the Divine, we are thirsty!”

No—examine your thirst again. It is not there; otherwise you would already have met. Between you and the Divine, the only obstacle is the lack of thirst. A burning thirst itself unites you. A flaming thirst itself becomes the path.

I don’t know much English; so I listen carefully, lest I miss something. And I know no Sanskrit at all; so I can close my eyes and enjoy listening—there is nothing to miss.
In Chetana’s recitation there can be no mistake, because I cannot detect a mistake—I simply don’t know.
Moreover, Sanskrit is a language to be heard with closed eyes. It is an inward-looking language. English is outward-looking; it should be heard with open eyes.
English comes from the West. The West is extrovert. Whatever the West has found, it has found with eyes open.
Sanskrit comes from the deep life-breath of the East. Whatever the East has found, it has found with eyes closed. The Western method is: keep your eyes open and look. The Eastern method is: if you want to see, close your eyes and look. For the West looks at the other; the East looks at the self. To see the other, the eyes must be open; to see oneself, open eyes are a hindrance. To see oneself, the eyes must be closed.
Sanskrit is the language of those who look within.
Then, English is fundamentally meaning-centered. Sanskrit is fundamentally sound-centered. There is no music in English; in Sanskrit there is nothing but music. The old tongues are tongues of poetry. Sanskrit and Arabic are languages of poetry. If you are to read the Quran, it can only be read by singing it. The Quran is poetry. Sanskrit is poetry. If you are to listen, then with closed eyes, in silence, as you would listen to music. It is not meaning-dependent; it is sound-dependent. English is meaning-dependent.
English is the language of science; Sanskrit is the language of religion. In English there is the effort that every word have a clear, precise meaning. English is very mathematical. In Sanskrit a single word can have many meanings. There is great fluidity, great flow, great freedom.
Had the Gita been written in English, a thousand commentaries could not have been written—how would they? The meanings of the words are fixed, determined. The Gita is in Sanskrit; not a thousand, a hundred thousand commentaries are possible, because the words are fluid. They have many meanings—ten, twelve meanings for a single word, as you wish.
Languages like English do not give the listener or reader much scope; they leave nothing for you—the whole thing is laid out. Languages like Sanskrit and Arabic do not say the whole thing; they are only a beginning, and then the rest is left to you. There is great freedom. Then you must think, you must complete it. In Sanskrit there is a start, but the completion has to be yours. It is a sutra—hence we call these sayings “sutras,” just a thread. Not everything is spelled out; there is only a hint. Then, taking the hint by the hand, you set out, and you find the full meaning within yourself. Meaning is not provided from outside, ready and chewed. You will have to digest it; you will have to give birth to meaning within yourself.
Western languages evolved alongside mathematics and science. That is why Western thinkers are puzzled that a single Sanskrit utterance can carry so many meanings—can that be called a language at all? Language, they say, should have fixed meanings; otherwise mathematics and science cannot develop. If in math and science the language too were indeterminate, there would be great difficulty. Everything must be clear; every word must have a definition. In Sanskrit, nothing is definable; it is the indefinable. One wave melts into another; one wave gives birth to another.
So I listen to English with open eyes—that is my homage to English. I listen to Sanskrit with closed eyes—that is my homage to Sanskrit. And I have little interest in pronunciation and recitation and all that, because I am not a linguist. Grammar, reading, pronunciation—these are secondary things. My interest is in the music of Sanskrit: the impact of sound upon consciousness, the mantric resonance that arises from sound—not pronunciation but utterance; not grammar, but the music hidden in the words—that is what I try to catch.
Always remember, I am not a linguist.
Therefore at times I give words meanings with which a linguist will not agree. Let him not agree—that is his misfortune. I have nothing to do with language as such.
And what I am saying here on these sutras is not explanation, not commentary. I know what I have to say. What I have to say has happened to me; I am a witness to it. When I hear a Sanskrit sutra, it is not that I am about to expound on it. No—I allow what has happened to me and the music of the sutra to meet, and then whatever is born of that meeting. To call it a commentary is not right; to call it an explanation is not right either. It is an inner reverberation.
As if you go into the mountains and shout, and there is an echo in the valleys—would you say the valleys have provided an explanation? What commentary would the valleys give? What did the valleys do? You made a sound; the valleys took that sound into their very life and showered it back. They mixed their own fragrance into it, poured their peace into it, infused their silence into it. They added their history to it, included their autobiography in it—that’s all.
Through these sutras I pour my own autobiography into them. Whenever I speak, what I say is about myself. The sutras are excuses, pegs on which I hang myself. But since you asked—good.
Chetana hums with great love. See her love. Recitation and the like are futile matters. If she makes some grammatical slip, only the stupid here will be bothered. The foolish are troubled by futile things. See her love, see her feeling, see her surrender. She sings, choked with feeling; she sings from the heart; she pours her heart out.

What have the scriptures said about the world? You won’t know by reading scriptures. Only by going into the world will you know whether the scriptures speak truth or falsehood. Where is the touchstone? Where will the examination happen?

The scriptures say the world is like poison—fine. You’ve learned what they say. But how will you know whether they are right or wrong? Just because it’s written in a scripture, does that make it right? Nothing becomes true merely by being written. Don’t become a worshipper of the written word. There are some crazies who are besotted with whatever is written: “If it’s in print, it must be true.”

A gentleman once came to me and said, “What you’ve said is not written in the scriptures; how can it be right?” I said, “Shall I write it down for you? What else do you want? If you trust what is written, get it printed. If you trust handwriting, I’ll write it out by hand. What do you prefer?” How does a scripture come to be? Someone writes it. If someone wrote it three thousand years ago, does that make it right, and if I write it today does that make it wrong? What does a gap of three thousand years have to do with true or false? The Charvakas also wrote treatises three thousand years ago—will those all be right too? Truth is not guaranteed by age.

Mulla Nasruddin got very upset at election time. His wife’s name was missing from the voter list; in fact, the list had her marked as dead. He took his wife to the election officer, ready to quarrel: “Look, my wife is alive, and the voter list says she’s dead!” The officer looked and said, “Well, it’s written here that she’s dead.” The wife said, “If it’s written, it must be correct. Those who write don’t write wrong! Let’s go home.” If it’s written, it must be true!

Some people place blind faith in the written word. What follows from “It is written in scripture”? At most it tells you that whoever wrote that scripture had some experience of life and recorded it. You too will only verify through your own experience whether it’s true or not. Life is the touchstone—always. You will have to go there. The final test is there.

That’s why I say: don’t run away! Don’t bolt because of what the scriptures say, otherwise your own scripture will never be born. Give birth to your scripture—bring forth your own experience. Only your scripture can become your liberation. Someone wrote something three thousand years ago; perhaps he was liberated by it. How will that liberate you? Knowledge is not borrowed. It isn’t that cheap. You have to burn, be tempered. You have to stumble a thousand times. Then, from the deep experience of life, refined and ripened, insights awaken.

So go into life—don’t run! Keep in mind what the scripture says, but don’t take it as settled; otherwise there will be no incentive to enter life. The moment the slightest difficulty comes you’ll say, “Look, the scripture says life is like poison.” Don’t be so hasty. Go deep into life. Taste all its colors. Life is many-hued. Listen to all its voices. Examine from every angle, recognize from every side. When you see life in its wholeness, then you too will know: yes, life is poison-like—and in that very knowing, transformation happens. Right now you’ve grabbed from scripture that “life is like poison.” So what? You heard it, read it, memorized it, and began to repeat it. What happened? What dropped? What changed? Anger is where it was. Lust is where it was. Greed is where it was. Your grip on money is where it was. Everything stands as before—and “life has become poison.” And you stand unchanged—without even a ripple of transformation.

No—don’t be so quick. And then let me also say: it’s true that life is poison-like. But there’s another truth the scriptures also proclaim: life is nectar. The Vedas say, “Amritasya putrah—you are children of immortality!” Life is nectar. The scriptures also say life is the Divine, the Supreme Being.

So there must be a difference between life and life. One “life” is what you have seen with blind eyes—that is poison-like. Another “life” is what you will see with your eyes open—that is nectar. One “life” you have seen through the veils of delusion, attachment, pride, envy. Another “life” you will see through meditation and samadhi. Life is the same. One life you’ve looked at through a distorted lens; the life is the same. Remove the lens and you will find nectar. In this very life people have seen God hidden. The scriptures also declare: “He is in every leaf.” He is in every particle. He is everywhere. Rocks and mountains are filled with Him, no place is empty of Him. He is near and He is far. This too is written.

The fun is that you choose from the scriptures only what you want to choose. Your dishonesty knows no bounds. You even make the scriptures say what you want to say. You haven’t yet seen the whole of life! You’ve only picked stones and rubble. When a man digs a well, at first he hits stones, trash, rubbish; if he keeps digging, better soil appears; deeper still, moist soil; deeper still, water sources—at first muddy water; deeper still, clean water. Life is like that. Dig!

You said, “Life is poison-like.” You’ve only scratched the surface. What people throw on the roads—the litter—that’s what lies on top of the ground. You’ve dug up that much and concluded, “Life is poison.” You went home!

Go a little deeper.

You’ve read the story of the churning of the ocean in the Puranas, haven’t you? First, poison emerged; then nectar emerged. You read it, yet you remain blind. From the very place poison emerged, nectar emerged. First poison, then nectar. In the end, the vessel of nectar arose.

Keep searching. Life is an ocean-churning. Don’t get exhausted and sit down because of the poison. Otherwise you will have captured a partial picture of life, a false picture. And if you find only poison in life, then where will you seek God? Other than life, there is no place. Where will you go? Then your God will be false. No—dig! Dig deeper! Keep digging until the vessel of nectar appears.

The scriptures speak truly: there is poison in life. And they speak truly: there is nectar in life. But you must become a witness to both through your own experience of life.

Right now, in the life you know, there is poison and only poison. But the cause is not life; the cause is your mistaken mode of living, your mistaken state of consciousness.

The moon-dot in the sky,
the earth’s flowering, hungry bodice,
the monsoon’s season of swings,
the springtime’s season of forgetfulness,
kohl-dark, shy eyelids,
sleep-drowsy, tangled tresses,
the fair dawn of songs,
the dark dusk of remembrances—
every scarf is Your scarf,
every sheet is Your sheet;
whichever veil I touch,
it is only You I unveil;
every mirror is Your mirror.

Water’s sound—pitter-patter,
earth’s mood—tinkle-tinkle,
birth’s chatter—its murmuring coos,
death’s silence—its hush-hush,
the prankish bustle of childhood,
the helpless faltering of old age,
sorrow’s sharp, sharp wail,
joy’s sweet, sweet hum—
every voice is Your voice,
every veena is Your veena;
whichever string I pluck,
I am calling only to You;
every mirror is Your mirror!

Search—search a little deeper. In your wife you will find poison—and in your wife you will find the Divine, the nectar. In your own being you will find poison—and in your own being you will find nectar. Poison is the outer layer—perhaps a protection. Nectar is hidden within; nectar needs guarding. Poison guards.

Haven’t you seen? On a rosebush there is a flower—and so many thorns! The thorns protect. Thorns and flower arise from the same source. Don’t get entangled in the thorns, weep, and turn back; if you remain unacquainted with the roses, you will regret it greatly. The thorns are there, certainly; but where there are thorns, there too are the hidden rose flowers. And the thorns are only sentries.

There is much poison in life—but it is a protector. And the day you see it so, that very day you become a believer. The day even poison feels like a guardian, and thorns feel like the flower’s companions, that day you became a theist. That day you said “yes” to God.

What is there to explain in this? Of course you are mad. But to be mad in this way is auspicious, a blessing. Not all madnesses are bad, and not all sanities are good. Some kinds of “sanity” are given only to the unfortunate, and some kinds of “madness” only to the fortunate...

If you are mad in love with me, what is there to understand? Your family is also right. And you are absolutely right. That your family is right does not mean you are wrong. Your family is right—and you too are absolutely right. This whole matter belongs to the realm of madness.

It is not the “sensible” who go in search of truth—the sensible run shops, make money, go to Delhi. The sensible don’t get into such entanglements. This is only for the mad.

Meera said: “I have lost all concern for public opinion.” Her family too became anxious. That is why they sent poison—to finish her off. Because the family’s reputation began to be talked about. A woman of a royal house started dancing in the streets. This didn’t sit well with the family. They began to feel hurt: she will squander the prestige of the lineage. She started dancing at every crossroads, sitting with sadhus and wandering mendicants, standing in the midst of crowds. The veil was lifted. At times, while dancing, the garments must have slipped. Values, culture, civility—everything seemed to be getting thrown away. So the family sent poison—certainly they sent it—for the simple reason that this “nuisance” should end. Their egos must have been getting hurt.
Now that I have you, I will have to forfeit public reputation. The one who has asked is a sannyasin: Swami Ramakrishna Bharati. And the very meaning of sannyasin is that you have now been dyed in the color of divine madness. These ochre robes are the garments of madness—since always, eternally. They are the clothing of the bliss-intoxicated. They are the raiment of the single-minded ones—who have turned their backs on the world and declared, “We set out on the Lord’s journey and are ready to stake everything. There is nothing the Divine may ask that we will refuse.” This is madness, indeed. This is not shopkeeping. This is a gamble—the work of gamblers.
Don’t bother trying to explain. The family is saying exactly what is right for them. Laughter and dance and song—householders are not wrong; they have their own measures: get married, get a job, have children; do what they did. And then teach your children the same, that this is wisdom—and keep the wheel turning. You produce children and live for them; tell them, “You too have children and live for them.” And so it goes. None of them has lived—not your parents, nor their parents. All have postponed life.

So when anyone in this crowd becomes ready to live, the crowd feels: he has gone mad. “Where does anyone truly live? Where does anyone meditate? Those things are written in the scriptures—fine. Read the scriptures! At most, offer a couple of flowers at worship! If you meet such a one and feel very moved, bow and touch his feet—then go home and forget.” But these are not matters for mere reading.

You’ve seen it: if the neighbor’s son is seized by the madness of sannyas, you too go to touch his feet; but if your own son becomes a sannyasin, you are furious.

In my childhood, sannyasins would often pass through our home. My father had a taste for them. A sannyasin had come once—that is my first memory regarding sannyasins. My father went to touch his feet, so I asked him, “If I take sannyas, will you be delighted?” He said, “What nonsense!” I said, “You went to touch the feet of this madman! If being a sannyasin is madness, then touching a madman’s feet—where is the logic in that?” He was taken aback. He thought about it. He is a simple, straightforward man. The next day he said to me, “Surely there is a hitch here, an inconsistency. I never thought of it that way. If you take sannyas, I would try to stop you. This man too is somebody’s son, and I went to touch his feet! If my devotion is true, then your taking sannyas should make me happy. So that touching of feet was merely formal; there was no truth in it.”

If some other person becomes a sannyasin, you are pleased. If a sannyasin arises in your own house, trouble begins. What trouble do you have with Meera? You aren’t the one who sent a cup of poison—that was the Rana! You say, “Meera—ah, a great devotee! Realized!” Ask the Rana—“Madwoman! She ruined the family honor!”

Your people at home are also right—from their angle. They too will go to touch a sannyasin’s feet, and sometimes after hearing Meera’s wave of bhajans they will be delighted and say, “How full of feeling that hymn is!” But if you sing with such feeling, they will call you mad. Meera’s own people said the same. They are asleep. They have not lived their lives, nor do they know that someone else might live differently. They think that living as they have lived is wisdom. If you live otherwise, there will be friction. To express that friction they say, “You are mad.”

Now, don’t panic on hearing them, and don’t look for explanations. Don’t ask, “How to make them understand?” This is not a matter for explaining. This is about going a little beyond understanding—above it. Tell them, “I am mad.” Accept it.

Moment to moment it feels
as if someone plays Holi without color;
so intoxicated the life-breath,
like the sandalwood palanquin of a new bride.
Jeth feels like Sawan, dear to the heart,
and noon turns to a springtime dusk;
such a season has come that even a clod of dust
looks like a jewel.

Just having seen you, no face
appears alien;
what did you touch, that a damp little quatrain
became a grand epic?
Who now will worship in the monastery,
who will twirl the rosary in the hand?
Living feels like a hymn to us,
dying feels like a sacred offering.

By committing the sin of kissing you,
this clay earned such a merit;
for lifetimes, the barren gorge of the life-breath
has turned green.
Don’t start talk of sin and virtue,
don’t discourse on heaven and hell;
when someone’s remembrance abides in the heart,
Maghar feels like Vrindavan.

A touch has happened in your life; you have shown courage. A ray has brushed you. Vrindavan is descending into your life. Be ready to be mad, and accept: I am mad. This acceptance will benefit you; it will benefit your family as well.

Don’t try to argue, “I am sensible.” You are not sensible. If you were, would you become a sannyasin? The sensible run shops, earn money, go to Delhi, hold positions, do politics. Do the sensible become sannyasins? This is the work of a few mad ones.

But you are fortunate. The sensible are the unlucky ones; for one day they find the shop has done brisk business—but they themselves are spent; one day they find they have obtained a post—but they themselves are lost; one day they find wealth has been amassed—but the supreme wealth has not been attained. One day death comes, Delhi is snatched away; only the cremation ground remains in hand. Empty-handed they come, empty-handed they go—would you call them sensible? But they are many in number. And of course, those who are many will call themselves sensible; they have the strength of numbers.

Buddha too was taken to be a fool. Even today we hurl an insult using his name: buddhu—made from Buddha. People said, “What is this! He left the palace, wealth, empire, a beautiful wife—what kind of man is this!” And as others began to go that way, people started saying, “They are turning into buddhu too! Now these too have become buddhu!” In this way you even forgot that the word buddhu came from Buddha.

But it has always been so. Whoever set out in search of truth has, in this crowd, certainly been thought mad. It is natural. Do not hope for honor from the crowd. If you want the crowd to call you sensible, then keep one thing in mind: don’t become my sannyasin—be some other kind of sannyasin! Become a Jain sannyasin, a Hindu sannyasin! Then the crowd will call you less mad; they will even honor you. For the Jain sannyasin has long since dropped the essence of renunciation; he is absorbed in receiving the crowd’s worship. He has long since abandoned the inner realm; he fulfills only the outer formalities.

A woman came to me—a Jain. She said, “Please release my husband. You have given him sannyas! If he must take sannyas, let him take Jain sannyas. What kind of sannyas is this—yours! This is a bother! How can one be a sannyasin and still live at home!” She was crying and said to me, “Do me this kindness—free him from this sannyas!” I said, “You should be happy; if he were a Jain sannyasin he would leave home.” She said, “I am ready for that. Let him leave home; I am ready. I will manage the children. That is not the worry.”

She is not worried about losing her husband, not worried that trouble will come upon the household. Because that would be socially approved. Society would accept it. People would come and honor her: “Blessed one, your husband has become a muni! What merits you must have earned over lifetimes!” She will weep within, be troubled—she will have to educate the children, manage the money, all that difficulty will be there—but it will be bearable; the ego will be gratified. Now she says to me, “Your sannyas is a nuisance. People come and tell me, ‘Your husband has gone crazy! Save him! There’s still time—pull him back, or things will go wrong.’”

She is willing to lose her husband, but not willing that he be thought mad. If he became a Jain muni, it would mean the husband is as good as dead; she is a widow. That she is ready for!

Just consider how the human mind moves by ego. My sannyasin naturally means “mad.” It is a kind of ecstasy, a one-pointed passion. And I am not telling you to try to be sensible or to prove that you are sensible. Accept it. Accept it joyfully. Make the announcement yourself. The best is that you yourself declare, “I am mad.”

Just having seen you, no face
appears alien;
what did you touch, that
a damp little quatrain became a grand epic?
Who now will worship in the monastery,
who will twirl the rosary in the hand?
Living feels like a hymn to us,
dying feels like a sacred offering!

That’s all for today.