Maha Geeta #66

How will the mind ever agree to sannyas? Sannyas is the death of the mind. Sannyas is the mind’s self-destruction. So it is natural that the mind feels restless; it is natural that it is afraid and trembles. It is natural that the mind raises a thousand obstacles. If the mind were to agree quietly, that would be a miracle. The mind does not agree even in small matters; it creates dilemma and conflict. In trivial things, where nothing is at stake—shall I wear this or that?—even there the mind gets entangled. Should I do this or do that? There the mind begins to waver.

The nature of mind is indecision. The very process of mind is to create twoness, to create duality. Where there is mind, there is conflict. When the mind is gone, you are without conflict. When the mind is gone, you are free.

Sannyas is an experiment in slowly dissolving the mind, wiping it away, entering the state of no-mind. So the mind is afraid, it trembles. The mind is simply doing its job.

You ask, “What should I do now?”

If you keep obeying the mind, where will you ever arrive? It is by obeying the mind that this misfortune has happened: these rounds of birth after birth, the wheel of life and death, again and again coming and again and again going; that endless, pointless race from the cradle to the cremation ground—enough! All this has happened by following the mind. How long will you go on obeying it?

Wake up, at least once. Say to the mind, “All right, you go on saying what you want to say; I will do what I will do.” Now do your own. Let something happen from beyond the mind. Rise a little above it. Otherwise life will pass like this and your hands will remain empty.

Dreams fell like petals; friends pricked like thorns.
All the adornments were plundered by the garden’s acacias.
And we stood, just stood, waiting for spring—
the caravan passed by while we kept watching the dust.

Before sleep had even cleared, alas, the sunlight waned.
By the time our feet were raised, life had slipped away.
Leaf by leaf fell; branch by branch burned.
The longing could not step forth, but the lifetime slipped away.

Songs turned into tears; the metres were buried.
All the companion-lamps were clothed in smoke.
And we, bent and hesitant, halted at the bend,
watching the descent of our climbing years—
the caravan passed by while we kept watching the dust.

Very soon that moment will come. The caravan has already passed, is passing; only dust will remain in your hands. The caravan passed by while we kept watching the dust. Before only the dust of the departed caravan remains in your hands, wake up.

And waking has only one meaning: do not obey the mind. Also remember, there is no need to fight the mind—keep this in mind. I am not telling you to fight with the mind; I am saying simply: don’t obey it. There is a difference, a very deep difference. If you miss this difference, you will go wrong. If you fight the mind, you will never get beyond the mind. Obey the mind or fight it—in either case you remain within the mind. Because we cannot go far from that with which we are fighting.

We are closer to our enemy than to our friend. You may forget a friend; you never forget an enemy. And when you fight someone, when you sit on their chest, how will you get up and leave? If you get up, fear arises: the enemy is free; what if he topples me?

The one who suppressed, who fought—he is the one who is defeated.

I am not saying fight. There is no need. Does the master wrestle with his slave? He simply says, “No,” and the matter is finished. If the master starts wrestling the slave, he is lost! Then he is no longer the master. In fighting, you have already declared that you are not the master. The master listens to the servant, says, “Fine, you have given your help, your suggestion—thank you.” And then he does what he will.

So do not fight the mind. Otherwise from the very beginning sannyas will be distorted. If you take sannyas by fighting the mind, you have missed; you will not really take it. You will come close and miss. You will reach the shore, and the shore will slip away. The arrow was about to strike, and yet it did not; it failed to reach the mark.

Neither obey the mind, nor be defeated by it, nor make any effort to conquer it. You are the master. This is to be declared, not proven by fighting. In fighting you reveal that you are not the master; you doubt, and so you try to prove. You are the master—by your very nature. Say to the mind, “All right, you are an old servant. We have heard you. We have listened to you until now, and found nothing of substance. Now we will do our own—without fighting, without quarrelling.”

Step into sannyas. Just slip into it. If you do not fight, the mind departs as if it had never been.

For four or five years you have been thinking! And you say that sometimes the desire to take sannyas becomes very intense. And even when the desire becomes intense, you still miss? Then think of those whose desire is not intense. What more will you do? What more are you waiting for? If, even when the desire becomes profound, the mind keeps winning, then there is no possibility of your liberation. What more can happen?

And now you have even come here, having decided to take sannyas. And yet you say that ever since you left home your body trembles and there is some anxiety in the mind.

Natural. Absolutely natural. Had it not been so, something would have been wrong. Do not make a problem of it. The body trembles—something unknown is about to happen. Who knows what will be? How will familiar people take it? The same town, the same people—will they accept, or reject? Will they laugh and call you mad? Will they oppose you, insult you? How will your wife take it? Your children? All these worries arise.

When you step into the new, worries are natural. The old is familiar; you have always walked on it. On that path you have been running like a railway carriage on the tracks, here to there. Today you are stepping off the rails, giving up the rut. Anxiety arises. You are leaving the highway for a footpath. There is a crowd on the highway—people in front and behind, people to the sides. A crowd going in every direction; there is a sense of security there. So many people cannot be wrong!

And the joke is: everyone thinks, “So many people cannot be wrong.” Those because of whom you are going are going because of you. You walk because the one beside you walks; he walks because of you. The crowd holds one another up and keeps moving. Those at the back think the front ones must know. Those in front think, “So many are following—if they didn’t know, why would they come?” The leader thinks the followers must know; otherwise why would they come? The followers think the leader knows; otherwise why does he walk in front?

Thus a crowd dependent on one another keeps sliding forward. Where is it going? Why is it going? No one knows.

If today you take sannyas, you step out of the crowd. You drop being a sheep. You take the footpath. Now there is no one ahead, no one behind. Now you are alone. In aloneness, fear arises. Night will fall, it will be dark, you may get lost—what will happen? Will you arrive? Is it certain?

Hence the trembling. The trembling is natural. It is a sign that, for the first time, you have lifted a step in a new direction—so the step shakes. And the mind says, “This I have never done. What are you doing?”

Remember: the mind is very conservative, orthodox. It wants to do only what it did yesterday, and the day before, and before that. The mind is a mechanism. If you ask a mechanism to do something new, the mechanism objects, “What are you saying?” The mind is skillful only in doing what it has always done. It has made a groove. It keeps moving in that groove. If you step out of it, the mind says, “I am not skilled in this. I have never done this; I have no practice. What are you doing? And now so much of life has passed—spend a few more days in the old, at least with a sense of certainty. Why go into insecurity?” So the mind also fears.

But do not listen to the body, nor to the mind. Because you are neither body nor mind. You are consciousness. You are the witness. The one who knows that the body is trembling—that is you. You are not the body’s trembling; your being is in the knowing that the body trembles. The one who knows that the mind is anxious, caught in dilemma—should I, should I not?—that knowing is you. You are not the mind. You are the one standing behind, seeing. In that witnessing, your being is. And if you become a witness, you become a sannyasin.

What will you do by becoming a sannyasin? You will become a witness—that is all. Sannyas means: we break our attachment to body and mind, and join with that which is beyond both.

Do not be afraid. Be courageous. Those who dared have found. Those who remained afraid stayed stuck on the shore; they never entered the deep sea. And if you are deprived of pearls, no one else is responsible.

What truth is like cannot be imagined. Before it is experienced, no concept of it is possible. What is truth like? It has never been contained in any word, nor captured in any image. What is it like? It is indefinable, inexpressible.

Therefore, when the veil lifts from truth, the Hindu will weep, the Muslim will weep. Some will clutch their hearts, some their insides. When the veil lifts, all those who had been holding beliefs will be struck dumb. For each will discover that truth is like none of their beliefs. Those who thought it was three-faced, a Trimurti, will be stunned; those who imagined it in other colors and forms will also be stunned. For how truth is has never been said—and cannot be said. How truth is has never been written in any scripture—and cannot be written.

Truth as it is can only be known. It is like jaggery tasted by a mute: the one who knows is left like the mute—he tries to say it and still cannot. And whatever he does say becomes untrue because it is said. The moment truth is spoken, it becomes untruth. Truth is so vast it cannot be bound in anyone’s fist—and our notions are fists. Our webs of words, our theories, our scriptures are fists.

So Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist; theist and atheist—all will clutch their guts when the veil lifts. Then it will be apparent: “Ah, what we believed—none of it is so. And as it is, it never once visited even our dreams. We never even had a hint of it.”

And they will weep. Because then they will know their beliefs led them astray; they did not bring them home. Sects have led you away from truth; they have not delivered you to it. But you know this only when the veil lifts. Until then you move in sleep, in a kind of stupor. What you believe seems fine—until your belief collides with truth and shatters like shards of glass. Then you will weep: “For lifetimes we nursed and knotted beliefs. So much worship, so much ritual, so many rosaries counted—wasted! How much we cried ‘Ram, Ram’; how often ‘Allah, Allah!’ And now what stands before us is neither Allah nor Ram.”

In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram they sang: “Allah and Ishwar—both are your name.” Neither Allah nor Ishwar is “his” name. He has no name. When the veil lifts you will see: the Nameless stands there—neither like Allah nor like Ishwar. His name is written neither in Arabic nor in Sanskrit; he is without name. He is like neither Shankaracharya’s belief nor the Pope’s. He matches no one’s belief. As long as the veil covers the eyes, go on believing whatever you like. The instant it lifts, all beliefs break. When truth appears naked, it scatters your concepts to the winds.

Understand it this way: you know the story—five blind men went to see an elephant. They even touched the elephant; being blind, they could not see, they knew by touch. One felt a leg and said, “Ah, it feels like a pillar.” He formed a belief—the blind man’s belief: like a pillar. Another felt the ear and said, “It feels like a winnowing fan.” He, too, formed a belief.

Thus each returned with a belief. Then a great dispute arose among them. Those five blind men were great philosophers. All philosophers are blind. They argued mightily, marshaling splendid reasons for their own belief. And the poor fellows were not exactly wrong either—for they had known as a blind man can know. They laughed at one another, too: “This is the limit of nonsense. I’ve just come from seeing it. I touched, I examined it in every way—it is like a pillar. Are you mad? You say it is like a fan?” The one who had felt it like a fan laughed back: “Has your mind gone, or are you joking?”

None of them was wholly wrong—and all of them were wrong. None was fully right—and all were a little right. That is the difficulty. They were right only in fragments.

Remember: more dangerous than untruth is a little truth. A small truth is more perilous than a lie. A lie you yourself don’t quite trust; you know inwardly it isn’t quite right. But a little truth you trust—and because of that trust you cling and are ready to fight.

Now imagine someone opens their eyes—some Dr. Modi performs the operation—and all five see the elephant. What will happen? All five will clutch their insides and say, “Forgive us! We blundered. What we knew is not how it is. What we knew was a part. And now that we see the whole, the part is there—but the whole is not like the part.”

Thus in every belief a reflection of some image has occurred—a shadow, an echo. But when you hear the original sound you will find that what you had known is present only as a small fragment—as a fragment. Yet you claimed: “This is the truth, the whole truth.” That is where the mistake lies.

“Some fingered the rosary, some lifted the cup;
each clutched whatever support came to hand.
And what a strange state it was—when the veil was lifted everywhere,
some held their heart, some their liver.”

In the dark you grabbed what you could—someone a rosary, someone a goblet; someone Ram, someone Rahim; someone the Quran, someone the Puranas. What you clutched in the dark will make you writhe when the light comes. You will weep then, and be greatly disturbed.

Therefore I say to you: don’t grasp any concept. Do not grasp any concept at all. If you clutch concepts, the veil will be hard to lift. Concepts do not let the veil rise, because your vested interest gets involved. What you have believed for lifetimes is hard to let go. To let it go seems to mean: “Till now I was a fool?” The mind resists that. The ego stands in opposition: “I—a fool? Impossible.” Better to be blind. A man does not mind being blind. A blind man we call “Surdas.” But a fool? We have no pretty title for that. For the fool we have only insults. These are the ego’s calculations.

A man will choose blindness rather than being wrong. Keep this in mind. He will not open his eyes—fearing that what appears may falsify his philosophy, and then he will be proved a dunce. Better to be a Surdas; at least people will say “Surdas-ji.”

Most of you have your eyes squeezed shut. You are afraid to open them. Ostrich logic! Seeing the enemy, the ostrich hides its head in the sand. When its head is buried and its eyes are covered, it stands calmly. Since it does not see the enemy, its logic is: the enemy must not be; that’s why he isn’t visible.

This is the logic of many. They say, “If God exists, why isn’t he visible? If he isn’t visible, he doesn’t exist. What is visible is; what is not visible is not.” This is the ostrich’s logic. The ostrich seems a great atheist. With head in the sand it stands there; the enemy is right in front, but it no longer sees him. Fear ends: since the enemy isn’t seen, he must not be. How can what is unseen be?

And thus the ostrich falls into the enemy’s hands. If its eyes had stayed open, there could have been a defense—running, fighting, hiding—something could be done. With head in the sand, nothing can be done; now it is fully in the enemy’s hands. Even a weak enemy will win; a small one will destroy it.

Open your eyes. And if you would open them, don’t pour your juice into concepts. Don’t cling to beliefs. Don’t be Hindu, Muslim, Christian. Don’t be a believer or an unbeliever. Don’t get into the chatter that “truth is this,” “truth is that.” Say only this: “I don’t know.” I am ignorant, and my mind is filled with a thousand thoughts. So let me at least find a way for the mind—so that thoughts quiet down and I become thought-free. Then perhaps, if there is no smoke of thinking veiling my eyes, I can see what is—as it is. Just so, just as it is. For now thoughts keep coming in between and mess everything up. Thought is the very veil. What other veil is there over the eyes?

Let me repeat: the veil is not over God, not over truth. God stands naked. God is sky-clad. The veil is over your eyes. The veil is on the eyes, not on God. That is why it happens that when the veil lifts for one person, God does not become visible to all. If the veil were on God, once one person lifted it, everyone would see—plain and simple. But the veil lies on each one’s eyes. So when Buddha lifts the veil, only his eyes open, not anyone else’s. If I lift the veil, my eyes open; yours do not. You lift the veil, your eyes open; no one else’s.

The veil is on the eyes. And what is the weave of that veil? What is it woven from? Notions, prejudices, scriptures, theories—the things you have believed. The veil is woven from your beliefs—brightly colored beliefs gathered without knowing.

In Soviet Russia there are no theists, because the state is atheist. Schools, colleges, universities teach atheism. There is benefit in being an atheist; being a theist is pure loss there. Be a theist and you will land in some jail, in some trouble. There is profit in atheism.

Just as in India there is profit in being a theist and loss in being an atheist—the same condition holds, only inverted. There is no real difference. Here a shopkeeper sits with a rosary in hand—it’s all profit. He can pick a customer’s pocket and the customer won’t notice; he keeps staring at the rosary: “What a virtuous man!” “Ram-Ram” on the lips, and the knife works in the armpit. And the “Ram-Ram” keeps the knife perfectly honed—so fine it is not felt. Even the one whose throat is cut keeps hearing “Ram-Ram”; he doesn’t notice. That “Ram-Ram” acts like anesthesia: cut the neck and he still doesn’t feel it.

Here there is profit in being a theist; loss upon loss in being an atheist—so people are theists. It’s a business, a straightforward matter of advantage. In Russia people are atheists. Understand this firmly: if you were in Russia, you would be an atheist. You could not be a theist. Here you are what pays here; there you would be what pays there.

Russia was a very theistic country before 1917—one of the few deeply religious lands. Priests, pundits, clergy, churches... Suddenly, after the 1917 revolution, within five to seven years the whole country changed. From children to elders—all atheists. Remarkable! As if this too lies in the government’s hands. Whoever holds power changes your beliefs.

These beliefs are worth two coppers. They do not depend on your experience. Behind them is trickery—others’ trickery and your own. Cunning sits behind them; there is no experience behind them.

Drop beliefs. I do not tell you to become atheist or theist. I say: drop beliefs. Undo this woven fabric of concepts. Open eyes! Say, “I don’t know.” Why be nervous? To say “I don’t know” frightens people; to avoid that fright they are ready to believe anything.

Ask someone, “Does God exist?” You will hardly find a brave person who says, “I don’t know; I am ignorant.” I call that man religious—he is honest. Others you will meet will say, “Yes, I know God exists.” Ask, “How do you know?” “My father told me.” Track down the father; his father told him. Keep tracking and you will be astonished—you will never find the one who said it out of experience. It is all hearsay.

That is why Hindus gave their scriptures two fine names: Shruti and Smriti. Shruti means “heard.” All your scriptures are either Shruti—heard: someone said, you heard—or Smriti—remembered, memorized. You sat like a parrot and learned them by heart. Shruti and Smriti are pretty words.

So are your beliefs—heard and memorized. Drop both. No one reaches truth through Shruti; no one reaches truth through Smriti. Drop both. The moment you drop them, the veil falls. Truth stands before you. Truth always stands before you. Truth surrounds you. Truth is in these trees, in these winds, in these human beings, in the birds and beasts. God is manifesting in a thousand forms. And you sit poring over your stale book. You sit with your Quran or Bible, looking in them for truth—while truth is dancing here in the rays of the sun, knocking at your door on the breeze, drunk with joy and jangling a thousand anklets.

Truth stands on all sides; the veil is on the eyes. The veil is of words, theories, scriptures—of Shruti and Smriti. Remove it. Say, “I do not know.” The day you are able to say this—remember, it takes great courage—very few can—on that day you are ready to know. The first step is taken. At least you have dropped the useless. What you believed in blindness—you have let that go.

At least be like a blind man who says, “I did run my hand over it, but what it was I cannot say for sure. It felt like a pillar—but what trust is there in a blind man’s feeling? I am blind.” Admit, “I am ignorant,” and the first ray of knowing will descend. Only into the lives of those so humble—who can say, “I don’t know”—does the ray of knowledge enter. God knocks at only their hearts.

Upon pundits this ray never falls. It may fall upon sinners, but not upon pundits. To be a pundit is the greatest sin in this world.

Such is the state. With what face will you stand before God? Which face do you have to show? All your faces are masks. These will have to be dropped. What do you have to offer to God? What you call life looks quite worthless. Where are the flowers you will offer?

By offering the flowers of trees you think you have worshiped? Worship was already happening—you interrupted it. On the tree the flowers were absorbed in worship. They were laid at God’s feet in a living way, becoming fragrant, dancing in the winds, spreading their scent. You plucked them and killed them. The fragrance scattered, the life of the flower was gone. And this dead flower you went and placed at God’s feet. Your God is of mud and stone—dead; and wherever you see life you immediately make it dead too.

Offer the flower of your own consciousness, of the sahasrar. When your inner lotus blooms, when its thousand petals open, then offer. Buddha offered such a lotus, Ashtavakra offered such a lotus, Kabir and Nanak offered such a lotus. The day you offer such a lotus, that day it is truly offered. And you will not have to pluck it to offer it—you will be offered. You will become the Lord’s. You will be filled with the Lord.

For now the condition is poor. Right now it is a state of great shame. Fine—this verse is by some poet:
‘I have come as a candidate for your mercy.’
For now you can only ask God for compassion, for mercy. For now you can only come like a beggar. And remember, I tell you: the one who goes to God’s door as a beggar never really gets there. You have to go like an emperor. The one who goes to beg never reaches God. Only the one who goes to give to God arrives.

Go taking something with you. Bring something into being. Let there be some creativity in your life. Let a few flowers bloom. Let some fragrance spread. Become something. Take with you celebration, music, dance, samadhi, love, meditation—take something. Do not arrive empty-handed in the court of God. Do not go with the beggar’s bag. That very bag is your desire. It is because of this bag that you have wandered for lives upon lives—begging, begging, begging. Nothing comes, yet you go on begging. You have become habituated to alms.

‘I have come as a candidate for your mercy.’
No, do not go to God’s door to ask for compassion; do not go making yourself a recipient of pity. But this is exactly the sort of person who goes.

‘With my face veiled by a shroud, I have arrived, ashamed.’
I have covered my face with a shroud; I have come weighed down by shame and embarrassment.

‘My many sins did not let me come on foot.’
I have committed so many sins that I could not muster the courage to walk on my own feet. The bundle of sins is so heavy on my head—how could I walk?

‘I have come riding in a coffin on shoulders.’
So in a coffin, on a bier, riding upon the shoulders of others, I have come.

This is the story of your life. You are not really walking here; you are living in a coffin. You are not moving by your own feet here; you are riding on others’ shoulders. And just look carefully at your face in the mirror: you will find you have covered it with a shroud. There is deadness. The mark of death is on your face. There is no consort of life, no joy and celebration of life; there is the mourning shadow of death, the darkness of death.

What are you doing here except dying? Day after day you are dying—and you call this life. Since you were born there has been only one occupation: dying. Every day you die, every moment you die—and this you call living. What could be farther from life than this? Have you danced? Hummed? Has a song arisen? Have you rejoiced?

No, there has not yet been any tryst with life. The relationship with life has not yet been joined. There has been no communion with life. You are only being pushed and shoved along. All right—this is man’s condition. It should not be so; it can be changed.

To change it, something will have to be done. And merely praying will not do anything, because in prayer again there is that same asking, that same beggar-mentality. To change, you will have to change the very outlook of your life from the roots.

Do not worry about living on God’s support; transform yourself, take yourself into your own hands. And you can do this. There is no reason, no obstacle that you cannot. The one who can travel to hell—why can he not travel to heaven? The one who can create sin—why can he not give birth to virtue? For it is the same energy that becomes sin and the same energy that becomes virtue. The very energy whose misuse makes you afraid to show your face today—use that energy rightly, creatively, and an aura will arise upon your face. A sun will appear. A moon will bloom; a moonlight will spread.

The energy is the same. Not the slightest change is needed. Anger becomes compassion—only a little understanding and awareness are needed. Lust becomes Ram—only a touch of understanding is needed. And sex becomes samadhi.

Take life into your own hands. Beware that even prayer may not be your device to escape. You said a prayer: ‘Lord, change me.’ Then if you don’t change, you say, ‘What can I do now?’ You have put the responsibility on God. You said, ‘Change me; now if you don’t, you are responsible.’ Thus you have shrugged off your responsibility. Now you will not even feel yourself to be at fault. You will say, ‘What can I do? I did as much as to tell you to change me.’ And you keep your old routine going. And in truth you do not want to change at all.

Your prayers often do not indicate an aspiration to change. They indicate only this: ‘We are not ready to do it; now if you want to do it, let’s see how you do it! Show us a miracle.’ You are seekers of miracles. Such miracles do not happen, never have happened, never will. You have been given absolute freedom. You have been given complete freedom to hum the song of your own life.

These very letters become insults and these very letters become sweet songs. Have you noticed? The alphabet is the same. You can make it an abuse or make it a song—the alphabet is the same. You can worship or you can sin—the alphabet is the same. You can descend into sex or you can rise into samadhi—the alphabet is the same. Only the combination changes, only the orchestration changes, only the arrangement changes.

Sannyas is an experiment in changing the arrangement.

You have lived as a worldly man—now live a little as a sannyasin. Change the orchestration. And I tell you, nothing that you have is wrong; perhaps you have used it wrongly. Whatever you have—nothing is wrong; only it has to be arranged.

Consider it this way: a harmonium is placed there and a man who knows no music is playing it. The fingers are fine, the harmonium is fine, running the fingers on the keys is fine, notes are being produced—but the neighbors will report to the police that this man is driving us mad.

I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin was playing the harmonium just like this. Finally it went beyond the neighbor’s tolerance. He opened the window and said, ‘Nasruddin, stop now, otherwise I will go mad.’ Mulla said, ‘Brother, it’s useless to blabber now. I stopped an hour ago. You are already mad!’

The harmonium is fine, the fingers are healthy, the player is fine—everything is fine; a little learning is needed. A little sense of notes, a little knowledge is needed. A little art of bringing the notes into harmony is needed. With the same harmonium, the same fingers, the same man—even the mad can become healthy by listening.

Experiments with music are going on in the West. And there are indications that in the coming century music will become an indispensable therapy for the insane. Because by listening to music the notes within you also become tranquil. They too come into harmony. The shadow of the outer music begins to fall within you as well. Great experiments are going on. Music can be a means to human health. One who has become deranged can be drawn back to health. And if one does not know, those same notes can produce frenzy. That is the only difference.

This is the only difference between the worldly and the sannyasin. One who has learned to play the veena of life—I call him a sannyasin. And the sannyasin, who has become skillful in playing the veena of life—mark it well—he will not have to go to God; God comes to him. Forget going perched in a coffin—you will not have to go at all. God himself flows toward him. God has to come. When you have put the whole arrangement together, when you have become as you ought to be, when the fragrance of meditation begins to spread, when every pore of you is suffused with music, when a flood of bliss and ecstasy arises in you—how will God be able to stay away?

When the flower blooms, the bumblebees arrive. When you bloom, God will come. You will not even need to go. And the day God chooses you—your choosing does nothing. You go on choosing; nothing happens from your choosing. The day God chooses you, that day, that very day, revolution happens. That day your ordinary iron becomes gold by his philosopher’s touch.

Do something so that he comes—so that he has to come, so that he cannot resist. Let your call not be in words; let your call become existential.

My life lies scattered—
choose me, and I will become gold.
You the touchstone, I base metal, impure;
you the nectar, I the vine of poison.
Fulfillment is your maid at your feet;
craving is my intimate friend.
Body and mind hungry, life hungry;
the whole field lies parched.
If you rain, O Ghanshyam, even a little,
I will become the monsoon of Ashadh and Shravan.
My life lies scattered—
choose me, and I will become gold.

Talent became handmaid to fame;
feeling sold at the hands of wealth.
The mind, doorkeeper of lust and anger;
desire, house-guest of greed.
My own knowing, no recognition by the world—
all acting without a stage.
If you become the stage-manager,
I will become the invisible vision.
My life lies scattered—
choose me, and I will become gold.

A needle of life without a thread—
it sews nothing, only pricks and pricks.
This creation like a cut kite—
it tempts, yet slips from the hand.
An empty bag, a tattered shawl;
awkward weather, hard the path.
If you stay with me, then I
will become a Ramayana of free verses.
My life lies scattered—
choose me, and I will become gold.

A mere bubble erased, a single surge
arose in the unfathomable ocean;
but I am so erased that till now
I have become neither flower nor found dust.
How much longer shall I endure this pain?
Now end, O Lord, this playful sport.
Grant me not such fatigue that when you
come, I cannot open my eyes.
My life lies scattered—
choose me, and I will become gold.

God chooses; earn worthiness. God chooses; bring forth music. God chooses; become established in samadhi. Drop prayer. Drop asking. Become worthy. Become a vessel. The day you become a vessel, nectar will shower. And remaining unfit, no matter how much you pray, nectar will not shower—because if nectar falls into the unfit, it too turns into poison.

Now it will be even more difficult. Now you have become a sannyasin too. Why does it hurt you when people call you mad? Because your notion is the same as theirs. You too feel that being mad is somehow wrong. When people say, “You’ve gone mad,” your peace is disturbed; anxiety arises in your mind. Your values are no different from theirs.

I say to you: blessed are you that you are mad. When people call you mad, thank them—receive it as their grace. Blessed that you are mad, for you have gone mad for God. They too are mad—but for position, for wealth, for trivial and useless things. You have gone mad for what is meaningful.

Do not be frightened, and do not be troubled by it. If your peace is shattered, it only means your peace is not yet deep—it is shallow. If a mere word “mad” can break your peace, then your peace is only on the surface.

Become more and more quiet—so quiet that even if the whole world calls you mad, not a ripple arises within. Become such a madman that no one can shatter your peace, no one can steal your smile. Even if the whole world stands against you, let your bliss remain unbroken and your inner current flow unobstructed. Become such a madman.

Tell the people of your village: “It is your great kindness—you remind me. I am not yet, but I am on the way. Slowly, slowly I will become so. All of you, give your blessings that I may. I have set out; if your blessings remain with me, the goal will be attained.”

And you will be amazed: if you do not become restless or agitated, the very villagers who call you mad will worship you too. They have always worshiped madmen. First they call you mad, throw stones, get angry. If you wobble at that point, the matter ends. But if you stand your ground, keep humming your song while their stones and insults keep showering—and you keep showering flowers—then sooner or later something begins to stir in them. After all, they too are alive; their consciousness too only sleeps. How long can they go on like that? They begin to wonder, “Are we missing something? This madman doesn’t seem an ordinary madman.” Your genius, your aura, your climate will slowly touch them. You will become contagious. Some of them, out of their hidden darkness, will steal over to sit by you. Some, when no one is around, will touch your feet. Gradually their courage will grow, and a little band of madmen will gather around you.

Those who opposed you will slowly start ignoring you. Those who ignored you will become curious. Those who were curious will slowly begin to worship you. This is how it has always been. Do not be afraid.

And if you ask me, what the villagers say is an opportunity for you. They are arranging a test for you; if you come out true on it, you will be blessed.

Jasmine blossoms in every pore,
bela is fragrant in every breath;
from every joint the malati showers,
each limb a fair of juhi.
At every step Manasarovar ripples,
on every path the kadamba’s shade.
What have you done? The ruins of age
now look like a royal palace.
Who knows what has happened that always
there is light without a lamp.
The coarse mat shines as though it were
a star-studded blue shawl.
All joys are like a fruit in the palm,
the embankments of sorrow collapse.
What till yesterday sounded like mockery
now rings like a benediction.

Live in such a way that bela’s fragrance wafts from every pore of you; that jasmine blossoms in every breath; that every limb hosts a festival of juhi. Live like that. Stop worrying about what they say. They speak for your good; unknowingly they are arranging your welfare. Be true in their examination. If you can be, one day you will say:

Who knows what has happened that always
there is light without a lamp!

Stones turn into flowers if you have truly gone mad. Go mad in truth. You have taken the first step; now do not turn back. The coward turns back; the courageous stands firm.

And there is no greater courage in the world than sannyas. The crowd is worldly; to become a sannyasin is suddenly to step out of the crowd. The crowd does not like anyone to be different. The crowd wants you to behave as they do: wear the same clothes, sit and stand the same way, walk the same way, follow the same rites and customs. The crowd cannot tolerate your being otherwise, because your being otherwise implies: are you saying the crowd is wrong? Does it mean we are all wrong and you are right?

When people saw Jesus, the question arose: if Jesus is right, what about us? Are we all wrong? So they crucified Jesus—out of compulsion, to save themselves. There was no relish in crucifying him; the “relish” was in removing the discomfort. If Jesus is right, then we are wrong—and that is too costly, too undemocratic. So crucify Jesus and end the trouble. The presence of this man disturbs.

But Jesus proved true even on the cross. From the cross he said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” When people heard these words from the cross, they recognized their miss: we have killed the one who came to give us life. Then worship began, lamps of adoration were lit. Today those who worship Jesus are the most numerous on earth. The reason? Repentance.

The number of Mahavira’s worshipers is not so great, because we did not commit great outrage against Mahavira; there is no cause for repentance. Understand this. We did not crucify Mahavira; without a crucifixion, what repentance is there to do? Jesus was crucified; those who did it felt a deep sense of crime. So deep that something had to be done. To escape the guilt they worshiped, built churches. The greatest worship in the world is of Jesus because the greatest mistreatment was done to him.

All right, we worship Mahavira too, Rama and Krishna as well; but our worship is not like the worship of Jesus—it cannot be. We never behaved so badly toward them. Christianity spread across the world for one essential reason: the cross and the crucifixion. The sense of crime became so dense in people’s hearts that they had to do something opposite to it to be free of guilt—they had to repent.

Do not be afraid. If people throw stones, accept them in a feeling of “ah!”—with gratitude. Keep this prayer in your heart: they do not know what they are doing. Or perhaps God, through them, is arranging touchstones for me.

Become utterly mad. Become so mad that whatever anyone says, it arouses no agitation and no unrest in you. Only such intoxicated ones gain entry into the Lord’s tavern.

And you say, “the saints say so”? If a “saint” talks like this, it only shows that sainthood has not yet been born there. The goal is still far—very far.

First, who is an “other’s woman”? You took seven circumambulations and the woman became yours? So cheap a matter! Yet in this country such stupidity has prevailed. A woman is called strī-dhana—woman as property; one assumes ownership over her. Who belongs to whom here? Who is one’s own, who is another’s? The wise say: no one is mine and no one is other. Saints say: drop this mine-and-other.

So whoever said such a thing must have been someone else in a saint’s garb—pandits, priests, politicians, the managers of society; but not saints. A saint will tell you that even “your” wife is not yours—leave aside another’s. You think you have made a clever point: that intercourse with another’s wife brings a seeker’s downfall. And intercourse with “one’s own” wife does not? And who is “one’s own”? The one whom a few fools made you walk around while they clapped and cheered—she is yours?

A gentleman used to come to me. He said, “By marrying this wife I’ve gotten into a great mess.” I said, “Then get free of it. You keep coming again and again with the same grievance; your wife is miserable, you are miserable.” He said, “But how to get free now? We have taken the seven rounds.” I said, “Then take seven rounds in reverse. What more is needed? The rounds will open. As they tied you, so untie them. Every knot can be opened. This knot too can be opened. If a knot is giving too much pain, then open it. Whatever has been tied can be untied; what is tied is artificial.”

A saint tells you: no one is yours; only you are your own. So if you ask saints they will say: para-gaman leads to downfall. Not “woman” and such—para-gaman means going toward the other; entering the other, forming relationships with the other, taking someone as mine or not-mine, making the other significant—that is the fall.

The Self is what matters; the other is the fall. So become swātmārām—one who delights in the Self. Dissolve into your own being.

A saint will say this. Those who keep accounts of “another’s wife” and such are not saints. A saint will say only this: para-gaman causes downfall; therefore go to the Self—sva-gaman. Going outward is the fall; come within. If forging bonds with another makes you fall away from yourself, then don’t forge them. Live among all yet remain alone, unentangled. Be in the crowd but let your solitude not be broken. Even if the other is present, even if nearby, let no shadow fall upon your Self, let no color stain you. Let your Self remain free.

But who knows how many people, who have nothing to do with sainthood, go about in the name of saints. There is a great crowd of the foolish; such crowds must have their own “great men.” Their great men are like themselves.

I have heard: Once a “mahātmā,” swaying in ecstasy and singing hymns, was walking down a road. After a while he looked back and saw a bull following him. Perhaps it was impressed by his ecstasy, or by his swaying gait. The “mahātmā” panicked. The ecstasy was only skin-deep; it wasn’t of the heart. He was merely looking for devotees to be ecstatic before—someone might turn up. A devotee did turn up: a bull! Out of fear he quickened his pace. A little further he looked back again—now all his ecstasy was gone—and the bull was charging after him. He began to run. The bull ran too. It was a fine bull, a great devotee! Perhaps it was searching for a master, for a guru—a true seeker.

Now the “mahātmā” was greatly frightened. To save his life he climbed onto a high platform. The bull climbed up too. When devotees latch on, they don’t let go so easily; they pursue to the end. Terrified, the “mahātmā” climbed up a tree and saw the bull standing below, snorting. Now he couldn’t come down. In a little while a good crowd gathered to watch the spectacle. There was a big commotion. Several people tried to get the bull to move away, but it wouldn’t budge.

At last the owner of the bull was found and called. He tried hard to coax it, but the bull stood exactly where it was. The “mahātmā” was stuck up in the tree, trembling, and the bull below was snorting. Now even the owner began to worry: What’s going on? This had never happened.

Suddenly the gates of his intelligence opened and, addressing the crowd, he said, “Brothers, the real matter is this: the bull is a very intelligent animal. It has sensed that this ‘mahātmā’s’ head is stuffed with straw. And until it eats that straw, it won’t leave from here.”

Those whom you call “mahātmās”—most of them have heads stuffed with straw. And that straw is just like yours. You find them agreeable. Whoever endorses your beliefs and calls them right, you call him a “great soul.”

Saints are rebels. Saints are not followers of beaten tracks; they are not line-toers. A saint speaks only what is truly fundamental. And is this a fundamental matter?

I only want to say this to you: para-gaman is a fall. It is not a question of woman or man. To move away from oneself is a fall. To slip from the Self is a fall. To be dissolved in the Self, to be swātmārām, to be so absorbed in the Self that the Self becomes your whole world, with nothing outside it—that is no fall. That becomes your music, your bliss. When the Self becomes your all, there is no fall.

But people are entangled in bookkeeping. You are mad after wealth; some “mahātmā” says wealth is sin. You feel pleased. Your language and the “mahātmā’s” are the same. Although he seems to say the opposite, it still pleases you to hear that it is sin. You know too that wealth is amassed only through sin—by sucking others, only then does it accumulate. How else will it? You know that wealth brings anxiety. You know how in the race for wealth you become inhuman. And you know that even after getting wealth, nothing is really gained.

So when a “mahātmā” says, “wealth is useless, there is no essence in it,” you feel he speaks very rightly. Then the “mahātmā” explains: “Now donate it. Donate it to the ‘mahātmā’.” Wealth has no essence; wealth is worthless. And when you donate it to the “mahātmā,” he says, “You are a generous donor, a virtuous soul”—because of the very wealth that is worthless. And when you come again, you will get a seat up front, special privilege.

I once went to hear a “mahātmā”—it was in my childhood. He was discoursing on Brahma-knowledge, and in the middle a rich man arrived, Seth Kalu Ram. The Brahma-knowledge was set aside: “Welcome, Sethji!” I was amazed: how did Sethji enter into Brahma-knowledge? As is my habit, I stood up. I said, “Now leave Brahma-knowledge aside. First explain what is the spirituality of ‘Sethji’? Please explain the spirituality of the word ‘Seth’ (wealthy man).”

He said, “What do you mean?”

I said, “I mean that you were immersed in Brahma-knowledge. Why did you keep an account of whether a rich man came or a poor man? So many people came and sat; you didn’t say to any one of them, ‘Please come, sit.’ Suddenly Brahma-knowledge stopped. And in your Brahma-knowledge you were explaining that there is nothing in wealth—it's mere dust, gold is dust. This ‘Seth’ has nothing besides that dust. And everyone has that dust in some measure. What did you see in this ‘Seth’? Explain plainly what made you stop and say, ‘Welcome, Sethji,’ and seat him in front.”

The “mahātmā” was furious; he was enraged, blazing. “Remove this boy from here!” he said. I said, “Maharaj, just now you were explaining that anger is sin.”

Gradually things came to such a pass that whenever a “mahātmā” came to the village, people in the house would lock me in: “You must not go.” It got to where my grandmother, with whom I lived from childhood, was so troubled that even when I had grown up and become a university professor, if I went home and then was about to leave, she would say, “Son, don’t get into quarrels with ‘mahātmās’. Because now you don’t even live at home; we don’t know what you do there.”

When I went at the very end, when her last breath was breaking, I went to see her. The last thing she said was this. Opening her eyes, she said, “Look, now I am going. Give me one promise: do not tangle with ‘mahātmās’.” With her dying breath! She had only this one worry. Because when I was a child with her, many complaints would come: that I had argued with a “mahātmā,” that the “mahātmā” got angry, that he raised a stick, that the whole assembly was disturbed. “Keep this boy at home!” And I had never asked any wrong question. It was a simple matter: how does “Sethji” appear in Brahma-knowledge?

But your arithmetic matches. Your “mahātmā” and you are cousins.

A mathematics teacher went to a barber and asked, “Can you shave me?” The barber said, “Maharaj, why not? Shaving others is my trade. I will do it.” The math teacher asked, “How much do you charge for a shave?” The barber said, “Don’t ask that, Maharaj. As the work, so the price. I make shaves from one rupee up to ten rupees.” A mathematics teacher! He said, “Fine, then make me the one-rupee shave.” The barber cut his hair and shaved him—the one-rupee shave. “There you are, done. Give the one rupee.”

The mathematics teacher said, “You have made the one-rupee shave; now make the two-rupee shave.” Now the barber was flustered. The shave is already done—how can he make the two-rupee one now? And a mathematics teacher! He has his arithmetic. Seeing the barber flustered, the teacher said, “Why are you nervous, man? Don’t panic. I will go up to the ten-rupee shave yet.” People have their arithmetics.

In my school the drawing teacher was caught for some crime; he got six months in jail. When he was about to be released, I went to receive him at the prison gate. He was a dear man and very skilled in drawing. The first thing I asked as he came out was, “How was it in jail? Was everything all right?” He said, “Everything else was fine, but the prison room—the corners were not ninety degrees.” Ninety-degree corners! He was adamant on that matter. The sum total that came into his head after six months in jail was this: the corners of the cell were not ninety degrees. A drawing teacher! The corner must be ninety degrees. That offended him deeply. I know the greatest suffering to him for six months must have been that the corners were not ninety degrees. Jail as such was not the pain; jail he could bear, but corners not at ninety degrees were beyond his tolerance. That must have tormented him twenty-four hours a day.

People walk in their own way, think in their own way. The ordinary man’s language is this: the ordinary man is interested in another’s woman. He is not interested in his own. He is bored with his own wife; he thinks only of how to get free of her. In the other’s woman there is flavor. The other’s woman appears enchanting. What is with oneself seems worthless; what is with another seems alluring.

To such minds, “mahātmās” arise to match them. They say: if you even contemplate another’s wife, you commit sin. That pleases them, because they are indeed contemplating the other’s wife. There is no difference between this “mahātmā” and their language. The arithmetic is the same.

Now a “mahātmā” who talks of “another’s woman” and such—is he a “mahātmā”? A “mahātmā” will say something original, foundational. A real saint will say what is truly essential. This much he will surely say: sva-gaman, sva-saṃbhoga, drowning in oneself, self-remembrance is the healthy path. Fascination for the other, a gaze toward the other, is unhealth. Because the moment you become eager for the other you are dislodged from your center. Your center begins to slip; you begin to go away from yourself.

It depends on the listener. If you have truly come to me seeking truth, my words will be dear to you. But if you have come to confirm your prejudices—that I should say exactly what you already believe—then they will feel unpleasant. If you come full of partisanship, they will feel unpleasant. If you come to listen with an empty mind, with sympathy, with love, they will be very dear.

It depends on you—on what is going on in your mind. If nothing is churning there and you are listening in total absorption, these words will pour nectar into you. But if you are listening in agitation, listening as a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian—“Ah, he said that! He spoke against our mahatma!”—then you will become restless, you will get angry. They will start to feel unpleasant. It depends on you.

For example, I just mentioned Daulatram Khoji; you all laughed—except Daulatram Khoji. I don’t know him, but I’m beginning to recognize him now, because among so many people only one man didn’t laugh. Now Daulatram Khoji may find it unpleasant, because he is attached to the name and thinks I spoke against him. I’m not saying anything against him.

I say to you: you are neither Daulatram nor Khoji. What have you to do with a name! All names are given. You are nameless.

If Daulatram Khoji listens in this way—“I am nameless”—he too will laugh. But if he listens clutching, “So, again he said something against my name!” then he will feel as if I am his enemy. Why should I be against his name? I have a reason: because you have neither daulat (treasure) nor Ram.

There is only one real treasure in the world: Ram. If there is Ram, there is wealth. If there is no Ram, there is no wealth at all. And if Ram is found, what search remains? Then you cannot be a khoji (seeker). Be a seeker only until Ram is found.

His name has become dear to me, that’s why I’m speaking of it so much. But he may be upset, and it may sound unpleasant. It is a matter of seeing.

My speech is a speech of love—some take it for home, some take it for a narrow lane.
To some it tastes like sugar candy, to others like a lump of salt.
Mira surrendered to its grace; Kabir became its servant.
Blind Sur received eyes, pierced by its arrow.
If it strikes, one thinks it a bud; if it lifts one to the cross, one thinks it a bee.
My speech is a speech of love...

This is the very voice the rain-bird cries when dark Shyam-clouds whirl.
The moth burns itself on the lamp, chanting only its name.
The bird knows it as real, but the cage calls it false.
My speech is a speech of love...

Whoever set it upon his lips became religionless,
Writhing lifelong like a fish without water.
The intellect calls it crazy, but the heart calls it a cloud of nectar.
My speech is a speech of love...

A doe from the forest of ecstasy, it roams forever beyond duality.
Do not bind it with a rope, O seekers; do not confine it in the house.
The meaning we have grasped is this: the wick is lit with a single breath.
My speech is a speech of love...

Understand.

The meaning we have grasped is this: the wick is lit with a single breath.
Only the one who blows out the wick of his ego will understand. If you try to understand through your ego, you will be hurt.

The meaning we have grasped is this: the wick is lit with a single breath.
When you blow out the ego, then the lamp that lights within you will understand this.

The intellect calls it crazy, but the heart calls it a cloud of nectar.
Do not listen with the intellect; listen with the heart. Do not listen through thought and argument. Do not listen through logic and doctrine; listen with love and affection.

…the heart calls it a cloud of nectar.
The bird knows it as real, but the cage calls it false.
If you are deeply attached to your cage—if you have mistaken your prison for a temple—then you will get upset with me. You will feel hurt.

The bird knows it as real, but the cage calls it false.
But if you hear me and do not bind yourself to the cage, and you recognize the bird within—hidden behind, inside the cage—then my words will give you wings again; they will become sky for you. Your bird can fly once more in the open heavens.

It depends on you.

Enough for today.